Hold Me Closer, Necromancer
by illuminatachime
Summary: Several years after Arthur's death, Merlin discovers that Morgana is alive. Ensnaring her, he lets her know of the plans he has for her, for them...and she sees that the years have changed him, but for better or for worse is yet to be discovered. Darker parts of Merlin have awakened, and they sing to her very bones. Rated M for torture, sexual content, and other horrors. R
1. The Hangman's Hands

**Author's Note: **Hello! This is my first Merlin fanfic. I hope you like it! I know most fans ship Merthur above all else, but they're only my brotp. I am irresistibly drawn to the idea of Merlin/Morgana, due to the poem "Masks" by Shel Silverstein. Anyways, read and review! Enjoy!

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Her hair wound up above her in delicate, weightless ringlets, undulating gently in the wind. She felt a strange sense of peace, as if the numbing cold had relaxed her mind, and all this bloodshed was simply one of those dreams. Idly wondering if she'd wake up soon, she tried to turn her head, but she found she could not lift it. Her neck strained and she wanted to see what was left of the battle around her, but her head just fell back onto the damp, hard earth. She wasn't wearing her cape and snow was collecting on her dress, shrouding her in a gauzy haze, as if she were covered in sea foam and spider webs.

Dead men lay all around her; the horrific aftermath of ferocity and belief; it meant just another loss or another win in a long-running war. There were so many these days. Her eyelids felt heavy and she indulged them enough to blink for a moment, closing her eyes and seeing light fields and an entire spectrum of important objects and faces. She wanted to sleep, wanted to fall into a few of these faces and just dawdle here, letting herself be buried underneath the snow. But she had to move, had to keep warm; she was injured and her magic wouldn't work if she was freezing to death.

There was a hole in her middle, and on the side of her left leg. She knew this because blood came out of both and stained the snow a deep, gruesome red. By the time she could sit up and walk away from these ruins, it would be pink, like a baby's cheeks. It would take a while to repair herself enough even for that, she thought, but she was just so _drowsy_ that she couldn't manage to lift her hands to her wounds.

The deep ache of the fight – her flesh wounds and the energy it had taken to use so much magic – left her completely deflated, and she let out a shallow breath, feeling her eyelids droop again, but this time it was not her will. The sky was a white-gray mess of storm clouds, vultures, and smoke, as it had been in her visions. _So this is the place,_ she thought, remembering the villages nearby and the people she'd met here. _This is the place I've come to die._

She dug her fingers into the cold ground, feeling the snow give way underneath her nails and the hard, frozen earth halt them. She was lying half-curled onto her side and half on her back, her legs to the side and her face pointed towards the heavens. She could feel the blood in her veins slowly running cold. Her body would become one with this ground, she imagined coldly. Soon small flowers and the weeds that strangled them would be growing through her ribcage, their roots wrapping around her spine.

Of course she was angry. She'd been angry for a long time, but this anger was fueled by the fact that she hadn't planned to die today. She wanted to thrash and scream and claim her revenge, but all she could do was stare up at the pale sky, with her shallow breaths and bottled rage. She could feel her hands becoming dry and hard, certain that if she looked, her fingers would look like the gray, twisted talons of a dead chicken.

She didn't look.

Instead, she waited for the clouds to take her, with their pouring rains and their rolling thunder. She was not afraid of a little bad weather. Closing her eyes, she let herself go, waiting for death to come and claim her so that she would not suffer as much as she should. She knew how death and destiny worked: hand in hand – they were, in fact, married.

This…war on _magic_ had taken a toll on her. Even the marrow in her bones felt drained of energy, like it had used all its lifeblood for mere promotion. Now she lay dying, her breath coming slower and slower as she felt her heartbeat slow down, away from the adrenaline and the burn of magic and her lust for vengeance.

The darkness came to cover her with its veil, like she knew it would. There was no shining light, not for her, but she didn't resent it. If it was the only result of fulfilling her own wishes, so be it. She was a simple creature of complex origin, and the pretense of doom didn't faze her as it should. Her eyes were wide open but all she saw was blackness, no stars, no moon, just an empty nothing.

She would wear this pitch darkness like a cloak made of the finest velvet. It felt jagged, however, but it was to be expected.

Then something like two shovels scraped underneath her like hot branding irons, and then she was floating, as if the night had given her the wings of a vulture and she hadn't learned how to operate them just yet, having fallen towards and landing in a shallow pond that let her float right in the middle, swaying and shifting slightly every now and then, relaxing her and forgiving her for not excelling in using the gift.

The shovels now felt like hands, one clutched at her left knee and another on her side, gently but firmly, and she felt as if she had been rudely woken. This gave her the time to peek out from under the veil of blackness and gaze up at the reaper who'd plucked her from the battlefield.

His cheekbones were sharp, his face pale and gaunt; his eyes looked haunted, far away. He was looking at her as he carried her through the realms and the hills of the badlands. She understood halfway what it was that he represented; a guide to see her through to her rightful place on the other side, so that she wouldn't wander or sneak away. It was a fine precaution, but as she pushed the dark veil up further, she recognized the clouded sky with a sort of disappointment.

"Mm…mm." Her mouth tried to form words, but her tongue was thick and she was so unbearably numb from the cold; her fingers would snap off from frostbite at any point now, she was sure. "Mmur."

Merlin raised his eyebrows and hushed her, his voice a harsh whisper. "Shh, Morgana," he told her, his voice as distant as his eyes. "There's no point in talking." His eyes were aglow with the kind of magic she was always excited to see rise in him, but now wasn't the time for amusement.

"I'm dying," she told him with difficulty, as if he couldn't already guess. His face showed no emotion, no reaction to her words, and she said, "Set me down and leave me alone."

He shook his head, staring at something ahead of him that she was too weak to turn her head and see. "Death isn't a private thing," he said quietly. "You wouldn't be alone, either. You'd have all these…brave, noble men around you, dying as well. If you wish to be alone, now is clearly not the time for your death."

His arms, once wiry, held her as if she were nothing. She wondered if it was magic that helped his strength, or if he'd made himself strong in the gap between when they'd lived together in Camelot and now. Everything back then had been so fickle; she was almost embarrassed to recall it.

A strange warmth seemed to come from him, or perhaps she was so cold that he seemed feverishly warm. She wanted to roll onto her side and into that warmth, to seal herself within it and never leave. This bitter cold had tried to kill her, and she wasn't out of its clutches yet. Seeing him had reminded her why she'd even been on the battlefield that day, and why a hundred men had tried to kill her. A few had succeeded, she thought, feeling her wounds jostle with every step Merlin took.

_I was supposed to die on that field,_ she knew but could not say. The warmth made the blood thrum in her fingertips and she felt goosebumps all over, as if her body was readjusting slowly but surely back to normal, as if she weren't fatally wounded.

If Merlin was taking her away from her death, it meant he would dress her wounds and even use magic to heal her. She knew this. And she knew that he probably had a reason for such behavior, which meant it had something to do with him and her former friends.

She did not want to go with him. But he had molded her to him the moment he'd picked her up out of the carnage and given her the shelter of his body heat. It felt horribly personal, as if he'd undressed and hugged her. She didn't like the feeling at all; it made the parts of herself that she'd closed off behind iron walls itch. Her nails, grown long from lack of care, would surely scratch scars along the metal of those walls, and streams of blood would flow down the sides, hardened and almost violet from the lack of circulation and warmth.

"You're different," she said weakly, and realized that she'd stopped keeping track of the time spent since Arthur had died; since Merlin had stabbed her with Excalibur. She tried to swallow but it was as if her muscles had forgotten how to function.

Confusion swarmed like bees in her head and she attempted to push herself out of Merlin's hold; he only tightened his grip around her, as if she weren't some dangerous witch. He was walking uphill, not even breaking a sweat as he carried her – the bony, wiry Merlin of the past had clearly come into his own, and this was perhaps set upon by the death of his best friend.

Sympathy wasn't her greatest virtue, not after he'd poisoned her and she'd made it her life's goal to kill Arthur. But watching Merlin's hardened face was a truly painful thing, and she remembered the days of old, when she, he, Arthur, and Gwen had been friends. It had taken a great amount of magic to heal herself after he'd tried to kill her, and these days she walked the faded earth, sinking slowly and side to side, over the jagged edge that she followed like a path.

Seeing Merlin again after so long and so much revived the bitter memories she'd locked away; Morgause and Mordred and the Druids, her visions, nightmares, and Uther. Squeezing her eyes shut, she pushed the thoughts away. Snow was still drifting through the air, cooling her face and giving Merlin an icy halo. His eyes burned with magic, and she realized he was angry, too.

Of course he was livid; she'd more or less killed his best friend and forced him to kill so many of his, including herself. Maybe, even, he was angry that she was alive. And how long had he known? Surely not for months after he watched Arthur die. His mind had probably, like hers, fallen to pieces.

As if reading her thoughts, Merlin glanced down at her and said, "I tried to heal him. I used every bit of myself to try and save him. He was my friend, my king. I loved him as all his knights did. But…I couldn't help him."

"And what of Mordred? Did you weep for him as well?" she asked, recalling the boy she'd watched grow into a man. She missed him fiercely, but he had been just another price to pay for what she wanted.

Pausing his steps for a moment, Merlin stared down at her again, his eyes now a grayish blue in the whiteness. His gaze was heavy, and his face was honest as he said, "I wept for every friend I lost that day."

The implication was clear and Morgana turned her face away, feeling childish as soon as she did so. A lump, to her surprise, formed in her throat, but she bit it back as Merlin resumed walking; he was seemingly satisfied that he'd affected her.

They fell into silence again, and not long after, Merlin arrived at a small cabin, much like her old hovel. It had a gray exterior and vines crawled up its sides. Merlin shifted her in his arms and opened the door, revealing a large round room on the inside. There was what she expected to be a bedroom behind another door, as well as about three closets placed in a triangle around the room. It was cluttered, as expected of Merlin, with baubles most likely related to potions and spells.

"Mattress," he ordered quietly, and the door to the bedroom opened gently as what could only be his mattress came floating out, landing on a bench to his left. Walking over, he laid Morgana down and turned to grab random items; when he turned back to her, he leaned over her and she raised a hand to shove him away, but all he did was brush it aside as if it were an insect that had flown into him.

His fingers pried away the shredded side of her dress and she pushed at his hands, scowling. "I don't need your help," she hissed. He pulled a chair out of thin air – or so it seemed, and sat next to the makeshift bed.

"I can tell by the way you were lying on the blood-covered ground, preparing to die," he said sardonically, giving a magnificent eye roll. "Quit moving." He took her hands and laid them by her head, and she realized that he'd bound them there with his words.

Huffing a sigh, she watched as his cold fingers peeled away the scraps of her dress that had dried against the blood; the sensitive area made her jerk a little, but she didn't complain and he didn't apologize, as they would've years ago. He produced a bucket of water and dabbed at the wound with a cloth. "It's deep," he murmured, "But it will heal." Tracing his finger along the cut, his eyes glowed orange as he wove the deepest parts of it closed, so it was no longer dangerous or fatal, but still hurt the same.

He bandaged her side, using a little magic to seal the gauze to her skin. Then he went to work on the side of her leg, brazenly pushing up her skirts and half-healing the sliced flesh there as well. After wrapping her leg with another bandage, he sat back and stared at her, his eyes blank.

Morgana shifted under his gaze, uncomfortable in this entire setting; his home, his plucking her out of the war-torn ruins of some village whose name she didn't care for. She could hear the soldiers still marching on if she imagined it enough.

"You stabbed me through," she said quietly. "And you left me to die there, in those woods." Her fever seemed to disappear with her impending death; she felt better, although still weak.

"This is true," came his slow reply.

She tilted her head and threw his stare back at him. "Tell me, then, why you decided to stop my death today. It's clear your attitude hasn't changed."

There was a long pause, and she heard crows cawing outside. This place, if she recalled correctly, wasn't too far from where he'd found her. Her eyes found the tall window carved to the left of the front door; the whiteness of the sky was pushed by the sun's rays through the window, making the glass on his tables glitter.

"Did you watch?" she asked absent-mindedly. "The battle. Did you see the men in all their glory? Such pigs."

Merlin simply stared at her. He recognized her dismissive tone; it was that of her father, Uther. How she had hated the Pendragons when she learned she was one of them. How she had hated Merlin for siding with them over her, a High Priestess. Merlin remembered so clearly the look on her face as she'd glared at him, speechless and flushed with frustrated anger. She would never understand the bond between him and Arthur, which was so much more than his destiny having been to protect the king.

"No," he told her. "I didn't watch. I was…away. I arrived back here at the end and heard the cries; innocent people who didn't want to go to war." His head dipped forward, in what she assumed was mourning. He'd probably known some of the villagers.

"Hold your head up," she commanded harshly. "They didn't appease, either. Those who won't give in to power have a reason to oppose it. Those reasons were a good reason to go to war. They fought valiantly; if only you could've seen. But you were out, ah, running errands. Could you not stand to protect these _innocents?_"

Merlin shook his head slowly, looking like an adult that was tired of trying to explain politics to a child. That was more or less how he felt. "If I had been here, not a hair on any of their heads would've been harmed," he murmured. "But you slew the children."

"I had no part in the children," she told him defiantly. "Or the mothers. I slew only the warriors who thought armor would protect them from me."

"You're a monster," he said, and finally his voice showed emotion. Tremulous and deep, it conveyed all the hatred and guilt that he'd built up inside himself over time; she relished it, wanted to prolong it so she could bask in his agony.

Smiling sweetly up at him, she said, "Masks, Merlin. You and I are the same. I just allow my true self to be known, as you've always had trouble doing."

He shook his head again, his eyes narrowing and his mouth twisting into a disgusted grimace. "Do not mock me as if we are old friends," he snapped. "I wished you dead years ago and I wish you dead now. The only reason I kept you from your well-deserved fate is because I have a task that requires you."

Morgana raised her eyebrows, almost surprised. "I don't miss the old, fickle Merlin. I rather enjoy this new, sharp-tongued version. And what are your plans for us? Are you going to make me the source of an enchantment? Or perhaps a sacrifice – wait, what's the difference?"

"Sleep," Merlin said sharply, before she could draw up more frozen memories. He reached out and quickly touched his hand to her forehead; her eyes closed and her entire being seemed to slacken as her grip on consciousness was jolted away. Her head lolled to the side and a soft sigh escaped her lips, so Merlin withdrew his arm and leaned back in the chair, rubbing his upper lip with the side of his finger as he stared at Morgana.

She was thinner, as he was thicker; the spooling, spiraling tendrils of her hair grown long and wild but not tangled. He feared the coming storm, as he knew Morgana's advantageous nature would find the holes in his plan and use them against him. She was a walking riddle, with her venom and her spells, and he could only dread her presence.

Morgana was fitful in her sleep, as she had been before. Merlin stayed in the room, watching carefully as his glassworks rattled. That was all that happened, though; he'd put anti-spells on his candles and windows so that she wouldn't affect them. She twitched, the whispers of her dreams cascading through his home like a violent wind. Hours passed and he simply watched her, thoughtfully rubbing his lip and content to do nothing else with his night; he'd worked enough lately.

How wickedly poetic it was, that she hadn't died. He'd failed to kill her time and time again, but in the end, she'd gotten what she'd wanted. How cruel it was, that destiny had played them like mere instruments instead of massive sources of power and craving.

"I've ridden myself of fate," he murmured to himself, as he had many times in the past. "I no longer follow its jagged path." Over the years, he'd allowed the darkness in himself to grow, almost to the point of consuming him, swallowing him whole. He'd felt the resonance of the kind of magic Morgana held dear pouring through his veins, singing, dancing, stealing bits and pieces of his soul.

He was not the Merlin he once was. Now, he fed the darkness his bitter emotions, and it fed off of him, waiting for the right moment to devour him. He was ready; he could control it. He could control anything and anyone. Arthur had kept steady the morality in him, as Arthur had with Mordred, but the magic's power had overridden the king's as soon as Arthur had disappeared.

Morgana mumbled something that sounded like a curse. Glancing at her, Merlin watched her arms fidget around and her face darken. "Quiet," he ordered, and all was silent. Yes, he could control whatever he wished. Even Morgana, he suspected, although he knew she would fight him. The last High Priestess, come home to him at last. He smirked.

Imagining that every piece of her magic was scrambling to heal her body, Merlin stood over her once more, this time in fascination. He ran his middle and third fingers along her brow bone, remembering how he'd done this once back then, before everything had turned sour. She had been sleeping in her chambers and he'd gone to watch her in her nightmares, expecting to hear simple murmuring but instead watching candles flicker and curtains billow.

She was powerful, yes, but not as powerful as he. He relished in this fact. Everyone, now, knew that he had magic. He could make anyone do anything, he knew. This knowledge made his blood boil and his teeth set on edge and his mood soar. He remembered running through the woods, wild and free and with nothing to hold him back. He remembered the wind singing through the trees, his hair floating upward in the wind. He remembered the deep blue of the midday sky and how it looked so like the color of Arthur's eyes.

It wasn't just Morgana who had come home, he realized. No, he'd returned as well; a month prior to her arrival, as if he'd been called by some otherworldly force. And in a way he had, because fate had brought him and Morgana back together, for better or for worse, and while he controlled his destiny, fate would lead him into many snares. He blinked and two candles lit themselves.

"Wake up," he said softly, watching as Morgana stirred. Her eyes opened and found his, blue meeting blue, and her face, having looked akin to a child's or an angel's whilst sleeping, hardened into her half-crazed mask, framed by her wild, dark brown tresses. He remembered Gaius at one point saying they could be siblings.

"I have plans for us," Merlin said, his eyes lingering on Morgana's full lips, pale and held in disgust. He wondered what secrets her lips had told, what atrocities her tongue had spoken while they were parted. "I believe it was fate that brought you here to me, Morgana."

"No, it was _feet,_ not fate," she said sarcastically, using her arms to prop herself up. She winced when her wounds panged from the movement, but made no discomforted sound. "I _walked."_

He rolled his eyes. "Quit your childish bickering and pay attention," he commanded, and her eyes flared, but she said nothing. "We're going to resurrect Arthur," he told her, and her face betrayed no emotion except for a slight amount of disgust. Standing up, he faced the wall opposite her and went on, "I have had visions of the future. The very distant future. And I intend to change it."

"And you think that just because you act _enlightened,_ I'm going to help you?" Morgana countered, shifting her weight from one elbow to the other.

She saw Merlin turn and then he was right in front of her, sitting on the bed and almost on top of her. His eyes burned orange and hers widened in surprise, but she frowned in defiance. She would not be scared by him.

"You'll help me," he told her simply, as if he'd foreseen that, too. "You have no choice."

Morgana snorted, holding his glare before breaking her gaze away and fixing them on the window. "I am not afraid of you," she said, shaking her head. "You can't make me abandon my mind and help you. You're not capable of such power."

Merlin was silent, and when she looked back at him, his whole face had hardened, grown dark and sinister in a matter of seconds. Morgana's eyes widened again as he leaned over her, grasping her knee and sliding his hand up her thigh towards her side, pressing his thumb through the bandage and deep into the cut that he'd half-healed not too long before. She squeaked in discomfort.

Feeling his finger penetrate her skin and rip through all that had healed, tears came to her eyes as she gave a pathetic cry; her blood rushed up around his hand and she cried out another time, then again, whimpering and squirming uncomfortably in an attempt to get away. "Merlin," she gasped, her hand rising to pull his away.

Grabbing her hand with his other hand, he squeezed it tightly and pulled it towards his chest, dipping his head down so that their noses were almost touching and she could feel his breath on her lips. Their eyes were level and he held her gaze with such _cold_ eyes, colored like a dark fire. He dug his thumb harder into her side, twisting until his nail hit bone, and a scream ripped out of her throat, transforming into a wail before it once again became a whimper. "You don't know what I'm capable of," he said in a steady voice with a dangerous undertone – something darker than what he was showing. She stared up at him in shock, and his expression was a mixture of glee, apathy, and malice.

Then the orange in his eyes faded away into the same old blue that she remembered, and after a moment he blinked, letting go of her hand before pulling his thumb out of her. It was covered in fresh blood and healed skin was caught underneath the fingernail; he stared blankly as she clutched at her wound, her own crimson-colored filling pouring through her fingers like jelly out of the pastries that the cooks used to make.

Merlin reached to fix what he'd done, but she hissed and wriggled away from him, batting his bloody hands away with hers. Her skirt was caught under his legs and made it difficult for her to put distance between them, so he grabbed at her arms, finally catching one. "Morgana," he said, his low, ragged tone making her quiet. He pressed the palm of his hand against the weeping cut and she moaned, tears welling in her eyes and one spilling down her cheek.

He felt her body knit itself back together, up until the veins were healed, and then he stopped. He grabbed another bandage and threw away the old one, listening to her keening all the while.

Merlin sat back, staring blankly at the blood caked underneath his nails. Morgana panted like a frightened animal on the bed, watching him with wary, primal eyes. Control had gotten the slip on him again, he thought. This was happening more and more often. Times like these…they didn't frighten him in the way that they should, but he always regretted them. Even though this was Morgana, who had murdered his friends, he felt guilty. Maybe it was because he was scared that one day, his harnessed power would hurt the wrong person and he'd be to blame.

She'd known worse pain than this; she'd been stabbed so many times. But that didn't mean there was less pain or that her body had become more tolerant of intrusion.

Merlin didn't apologize. He was a creature of magic, and sometimes the magic turned impulsive. She should know that better than anyone. But he wasn't even sorry; not after all she'd done. So no, he didn't apologize and wasn't going to. Instead, he repeated in his soft voice, "You don't know what I'm capable of."

And Morgana felt his words resonate in her bones, as if he'd pressed his lips to her flesh and sent his words inside of her, breathing them into her pores and letting them slip through her bloodstream. She felt the echo of everything that had changed him over the past years, marred him and made him something other than the old Merlin, but more than a man.

Bitterly, without scrubbing the tears off of her face, she said, "We could've been kings and queens. All of us." Guinevere, Arthur, Merlin, and herself. Maybe even Mordred and Lancelot; Morgause.

Merlin's eyes filled with nostalgia, and it swam deep into him as he nodded slowly. "Three of us were," he told her, as if she didn't remember. "And always…there was a Pendragon on the throne."

She grimaced, hand placed delicately over her side like he was going to attack her again. "I am not a Pendragon. I was never allowed to be. You saw the effect of that."

Merlin sighed, his eyes seeming to search for something in the room and not finding it. "You're more like your father than you know," he said simply, to which she sat up against the wall, glaring at him but wary now, as if anything she might say may turn him into…whatever that was again.

"I'm neither stupid nor arrogant, and I'm far from being a tyrant," she snapped, re-folding her skirts and trying to pay as little attention to him as possible. Her heart leapt within her chest, and she didn't want to call it fright, but it was fright. She'd thought she'd seen Merlin at his worst when he'd stabbed her through.

"You're rash, unfeeling, hateful, and monstrous," Merlin snapped back, standing up and causing Morgana to flinch. "You're also very brave," he added quickly. "Go to sleep, Morgana, you'll need your rest." His voice was strained as he began to walk towards his bedroom door.

Morgana glowered for several hours after that, watching the candles he'd lit while she was asleep flicker and spit. She tried to put them out so many times but found she couldn't, and wondered what kind of magic he'd used to make her so weak, not even considering that the fault might be her own.

She didn't bother trying to get up; her leg seemed to be getting sorer with every waking minute. Turning over and over until she found a comfortable position in which she didn't rest on her left side, she wondered what Merlin was using as a mattress to sleep on, or if he was sleeping at all. She didn't dare call out to him, not like children who shared a room would've, like restless friends whispering in the middle of the night. He'd probably left the room to be rid of her. He probably had a spare mattress. She didn't know; she didn't care.

Sleep came only when she became horribly bored, when it seemed like the distant, distant future of which Merlin had spoken had arrived. Her eyelids fluttered like butterfly wings as she tried to stay awake, but they became heavier and heavier like a skirt in water.

* * *

In her dream, she stood on a raised platform made of wood, and Arthur stood to her right, wearing a red, velvet cape, his blonde hair floating gently in the breeze. He stared ahead, his eyes dark and distant. His cheekbones seemed sharper than before, and he stood with his hands clasped behind his back and his feet shoulder-width apart, as if waiting for his father to come up on the platform with him.

Following his gaze, Morgana noticed a crowd of people gathered around the dais, their faces nonexistent. Hatred – for him, for her – swarmed around the crowd like a plague, and Morgana glanced at Arthur out of the corner of her eye. He remained still.

Past the crowd, a small procession trudged closer and closer, and she recognized a few of Arthur's knights – Gwaine, Lancelot, and Mordred. Mordred and Gwaine held a man by the arms as he stumbled to keep up with them, head down and clothes dirty. The knights' faces were just as stoic as Arthur's.

Morgana realized that they were in Camelot when she caught sight of the castle, down the road. Staring at its architecture almost as if she was seeing it for the first time, Morgana saw movement in one of the windows and squinted at a dark figure; in the shadows stood Guinevere, her face too far away to be readable.

Frowning at the sense that something was amiss, Morgana remained quiet, looking back to the procession. The man was shouting but his voice was distorted, and she could barely make out what he was saying. "Kill the heathens! Their wretched blood should not survive this decade!"

Uther.

Everything went still for a moment as she closed her eyes, a feeling of dread pooling within her. When she reopened her eyes, she felt colder, harder, as if the sight of him had changed something within her. She watched him reach the stairs to the platform with a raised chin, wondering why Arthur wasn't protesting.

She turned her head and saw a noose hanging not five feet away from her; knew it was Uther's fate before he was thrust in front of it, in front of her. He gazed at her coldly before spitting at her feet, but she just held his eyes with contempt.

_You're more like your father than you know. _The words felt whispered against her ear like a lover's sigh, and she almost turned her head to see if anyone was actually there. But she felt Arthur's hand on her opposite shoulder and his chest come to her back before she could look, and he said quietly, "Morgana. There's something I should tell you."

"What?" she murmured, not looking at him. Her eyes were fixed on Uther, who suddenly threw his head back and gave a hideous cry as the noose was placed around his head by Gwaine. The knights let go of Uther's arms and he flailed, driven insane by his looming execution.

The executioner, wearing a black frock with a hood that covered his face completely, placed his hands on the lever. Morgana felt Mordred's gaze bore into her, and she locked eyes with him as he mouthed, "Be still, you're home." She cocked her head to the side, puzzled.

Without warning, the leather was pulled, and Morgana's head snapped towards Uther's body as it jerked helplessly about. Swallowing hard, she stared up at the hangman – a crow perched on his shoulder, digging its talons into him so harshly that his cape was torn and she could see his bloody skin underneath.

Sir Gwaine knelt in front of her, staring up at her as if she were the sun. Grasping her skirt like a child, he said, "You're home." Grabbing her skirts, she pulled them out of his clutches and moved to the other side of Arthur, who still stood straight as a statue, looking stern and stoic just as before.

Morgana couldn't help but stare at the hangman; his familiar shoulders and the way he hung his head, as if he weren't used to making eye contact. She couldn't see his face, but she knew him the instant he said, "Next."

Uther's body was let loose from the noose by Sir Lancelot, and it went flopping onto the ground underneath a square hole cut in the platform. The knight placed the noose around his own neck. Merlin swiftly executed Lancelot, without so much as a falter, then called for the next person.

Mordred stepped forward, looking solemn, and Morgana's entire body cried out with a mother's love, and she shrieked, "No! You can't!" into dead silence, and the clouds overhead grew darker as all eyes – the eyes of the crowd, the remaining knights, and even the eyes of Arthur – turned to her.

Before she knew it, Mordred was strutting towards her with a look of anger on his face. Grabbing her roughly by the shoulders, he ignored Arthur's disgruntled sigh as he shoved Morgana down on her knees, taking a fistful of her hair and bending her head back. She stared at Merlin with wide eyes as the noose slid down around her head, and felt even more frustrated and confused when he said, "I felt you every day. I felt you every time you moved."

"I see," her lips said. Her hands, clasped behind her back in the same manner as Arthurs', began to shake. "And what of the others?"

"All gone," he said with a shrug, resting his hands conversationally on top of the lever. "There's only you and I, now. I felt you every time you moved."

She nodded, tears forming in her eyes. Mordred's hand detangled its fingers from her hair and she gazed valiantly out at the crowd, wondering why she'd been forced to her knees in front of them. Everything was silent but felt as if there was a deadly riot taking place, and her heart beat steadily in her ears.

Looking to Arthur as if he would help her, she said, "The once and future king."

Merlin nodded enthusiastically, grinning as if she'd just proposed a wonderful toast. "The once and future king," he said in agreement, and looked to Arthur. Morgana's eyes trailed after his, towards the cold king's face, and his blue eyes met hers.

Oceans. She felt oceans surround the three of them, as heavy as Guinevere's gaze resting on her from the window. Mordred's fingers combed through her wild hair, trying to tame her and make her human again. She tried to twist away, but the imaginary water made her buoyant and she stared into the square hole, seeing Uther's lifeless gaze reflect back at her. She wondered what her mother looked like.

Merlin pulled the lever and she felt herself falling, weightless and infinite, deep into a dark pit. The pit turned into a deep blue tunnel, with a light at the end, and she splashed underwater, feeling freezing water turn her skin cold.

Then Merlin's hands were clutching at her, trying to wrap around her, grab hold of her. She thrashed in the water and he finally caught her, pulling her up and outward as if he were plucking a feather off a chicken. Holding her by the arms as she coughed water into his lap, he chuckled and said, "Don't you know how to swim?"

She raised her head and saw that they were in a valley, and she'd been in a lake. They sat under a tree on the bank of the lake and he leaned against it, staring at her with both a serious and amused look on his face. The tunnel seemed like a silly notion and she dismissed it as such, wiping her hands on Merlin's chest as he cupped her face in his hands.

It was autumn and leaves blew around them as easily as snow, catching in their hair and sticking to her wet body. She undid the strings of her bodice and pulled her saturated dress off, laying it next to them and shivering in her underthings. They were white and translucent from being wet, and she stared at Merlin as he undid the strings of his cape, opening it for her to take shelter from the breeze.

She climbed onto his lap and he closed the cloak around her, holding her in his arms as she stared at the sky. Closing her eyes and turning to face him as she leaned against his chest, she sighed contently into his collar bone as he adjusted his arms around her back. He wasn't wearing much underneath the cloak, which was odd, but then again, Merlin was always odd.

"Morgana." His voice was gentle and quiet, and his body heat surrounded her, warming the places where their bodies touched before seeping into the rest of her. She was still breathing heavily from almost drowning, and his hands rubbed up and down her back, trying to heat her up. His fingers traced her spine as he pet her hair, staring across the lake as if searching for something.

Warmth pooled in her stomach, seeping down her abdomen and between her legs. Morgana made an uncomfortable noise and shifted in Merlin's arms, only to feel a jab of pain in her side, like a cramp. Merlin noticed her behavior, tearing his cloak away from her to reveal her injury, having followed her here, bleeding heavily.

Pressing her hands to her side and whispering nonsense, she waited for her magic to help her, but found it was missing from her. Shocked and nervous, she raised her head to stare at him, frantically trying to save herself. "Merlin," she stammered at one point, but he simply stared back at her. Removing her hands from her wound, she grabbed his shoulders – now clad only in a simple white shirt – and shook him frantically.

He remained still. "Merlin!" she cried, but he remained frozen. Her bloody hands were staining his shirt. Deep, disconcerting red marks stood out against his pale shirt and skin, and she felt her lower lip tremble as she took in the sight of it.

A twig snapped somewhere close by, and she grabbed Merlin protectively as she looked around, her wound seeping blood more quickly now. Pressing a hand to it, she bit her tongue hard in an attempt to drown out the pain, but her teeth came away bloody as well. All was raw.

Arthur stepped out from behind the tree, holding his sword. Resting its tip in the ground, he leaned against the hilt and stared at Morgana, his face blank as it had been before, on the wooden platform. Violet images flashed before Morgana's eyes when she blinked, yellow and orange butterflies and birds. She saw a black cavern and a deep blue sea, and then red apples while green grass tickled her legs.

"Give me a reason," Arthur said tonelessly, his eyes not quite meeting hers. "Just a little reason. Are you sorry?"

Morgana stared at him, stared at his blonde hair floating in the wind and his empty blue eyes, his pale skin and his knight's garb. Another flood of images rushed through her brain; Uther's hateful insanity, Arthur's arrogant rashness. How wonderful it had been to know Morgause as siblings…

Hours seemed to pass in mere seconds. The wind blew her hair against her lips and she still clung to Merlin, her betrayer, her savior. She stared at her half-brother with wild, childlike eyes, speechless and contemplating. The lake they sat next to, she realized, was the Lake of Avalon. _That's why I was drowning,_ she thought. _They hate me._

Turning to look over her shoulders, she saw two of Arthur's knights flanking her from a distance; the one with the dark skin – Gwen's brother, Sir Elyan – watching from the trees to her left, copying Arthur's pose with a hard expression on his face, directed at her. Sir Lancelot stood at the edge of the lake to her right, his sword in its sheath and a dutiful expression on his rugged face; she caught his eye and he dipped his head in a small, singular nod, as if he still respected her as much as she respected him. Morgana nodded to him in return.

She faced Arthur once again, no longer unsettled by Merlin's stillness. Taking her hand away from her side, she looked at the crimson smeared from her palm to her elbow before closing her eyes, taking a deep breath, and reopening them to gaze at her brother once more; this time, her expression wasn't scared or naïve. Instead, she held her face as neutral as he did, refined and collected, as their father had dictated to them between luncheons and meetings.

"No," Morgana finally replied, the power in her own voice resonating throughout the ground, the trees, and the lake itself. His face broke and became wistful for half a second, but returned to blank immediately after. She blinked and he vanished, perhaps back into the lake from whence he'd supposedly come, or simply disappeared from her mind.

Glancing at Merlin, she raised her bloody hands and took his face in them, cupping his jaw gently as she brought his face close to hers. Staring into his eyes, she told him, "You don't need to wake up, Merlin. I understand."

Then Merlin's face broke as well, and he gave his trademark smile; his noble, pure grin. His blue eyes passionate as they searched hers, he murmured, "I was never far from you."

Morgana smiled at him and he grasped her hand in his, warm and safe like she'd always known him to be. He placed his hand against her stomach and all the pain was gone in an instant; she was so mesmerized in watching her skin knit itself back together between his fingers that she almost missed the dark clouds gathering overhead.

Raising her chin to stare up at the blackened sky, she likened the clouds to a charcoal drawing. Wide-eyed and open-mouthed, she lowered her face to see Merlin's eyes blazing a magnificent red-orange, and whimpered as he stared at her with the dark expression she'd encountered earlier.

"You need to wake up, Morgana," he told her in a deep, scathing voice – so unnatural compared to his usual light tones. "You don't understand at all."

And that was when she sat bolt upright on his mattress, chest heaving and beads of sweat rolling down her forehead and making her hair stick to her forehead. A cold gust of wind blew from under the front door and her head snapped towards it, her body shivering even though at some point, Merlin had covered her with a blanket.

_You don't understand at all._ The words replayed through her head and her thoughts scattered, traveling along each branch of what that could _possibly _mean and coming up inconclusive. "I really don't," she breathed, clutching the sheets in her sweaty fingers. Lying back down, she turned onto her uninjured side and stared at the candles once more, using every corner of her magic to try and put them out. But, just like before, she couldn't manage to get rid of the flames, and the fire so reminded her of the color of Merlin's eyes.

Swallowing hard, she realized she was stuck, and that it would be a while before she got herself out of this one. Exhausted and breathing heavily, she remained awake for most of the night, but when dawn came, her eyelids drifted shut once more, and for once, she didn't dream at all.


	2. The Thorn Under Your Bed

**Author's Note:** Okay, next chapter! I tried to post it by the end of last week, but it's the weekend, so... Anyway, thank you for the reviews! They really mean a lot to me, and I hope you continue to give me your opinions! Enjoy!

* * *

When he woke up the next morning, Merlin had forgotten Morgana's presence in the next room, despite the fact that he had spent the early morning hours lying wide awake and listening to her mumble and twitch at her dreams, or the fact that she was sleeping on his mattress out there and he was sleeping on a pile of heavy robes.

He did remember, however, when he stood in the threshold of his doorway and raised a hand to massage his stiff neck, which was sore from sleeping at an unusual angle. The memory struck him out of the blue and he went still, suddenly cautious because she might've recuperated more quickly than he'd expected.

Yes, he'd plucked her off the battlefield and carried her away for his own plans, like a Valkyrie turned vulture. Closing his eyes briefly, shocked at his own rash actions, he opened them again and lifted his hand from his neck to push the door open. Gently, the door swung away from his hand and revealed the main room to his hovel with a sweeping gesture.

Immediately, his eyes found Morgana, who lay on the mattress where he'd left her, gingerly touching the area that had been wounded almost fatally. Her face was pale and slightly green, and she looked more deranged than he'd ever seen. She stared at him, her body so still that he would've thought her dead had it not been for her eyes, which were so _awake_ that he almost wanted to slam the door shut and will her far away. But she was visibly weak, and for some reason that made him stay, closing the distance between them without even thinking about it.

Standing at her side, he said in the softest of sleep-thickened voices, "Morgana?"

Her intense gaze did not falter. "Merlin," she said after a moment, her voice raspy. Her fingers lightly traced her wound, and the movement drew his attention.

Looking at the bandages nestled into the tattered areas of her dress, he asked, "Is something wrong? You look as if your condition's worsened." Swallowing hard, he pushed her hand away from the wound and deftly peeled the bandages away as well, eyes widening in alarm as he saw what it had turned into.

"That looks…abhorrent," whispered Morgana, who had lifted her head to see for herself. Merlin nodded without meaning to, without making eye contact, and said, "It's an infection. I'll try to fix it as best I can."

He wasn't a healer, but even then he knew that this probably had to do with what he'd _done _the previous night; sticking his thumb into her as easily as going for a dip in the river. As if she'd read his mind, Morgana said, "Looks like you can't go stabbing me with your fingers again."

_Quiet, _he almost hissed at her, ashamed that he'd lost control last night. It was the oldest part of him, the oldest part of his destiny, but it had only surfaced over the past five years and constantly surprised him. Half of him wanted to apologize, and the other half thought that Morgana kind of deserved it after all she'd done.

Turning from her, he glanced at his work table, surveying the different types of herbs, liquids, spices, and other ingredients that he'd collected wherever he could. Over the years he had unwittingly manifested a gathering of materials used for brews, salves, potions, and the like. Padding barefoot over to the table, he picked up a few bottles and some other supplies before reaching for a mortar and pestle and trying to recall everything Gaius had taught him. After a few moments of racking his brain, he finally remembered how to mix the salve, and quickly carried out the tasks. Quickly, he returned to Morgana's side and dabbed his fingers into the mixture, murmuring, "This will sting a little bit."

Tracing the wound with his index and middle fingers, Merlin lathered the salve onto her skin, watching its color vanish as he rubbed it in. Morgana made a noise of discomfort, and he set the mortar back on the table behind him, watching her face. She still stared at him, eyelids half closed over her blue eyes, but unblinking nonetheless.

"You look lonely," she said quietly, her voice shaking from feeling so ill. Merlin cocked his head at her, fidgeting with the bandage that he'd picked up. Twirling it around in his hands a few times, he sat next to her and leaned to bandage her wound once again.

"So do you," he said passively. Her hand came away from her side to clutch his forearm, her grip much stronger than he would've figured by looking at her pallid face.

"Remember when you said you've always blamed yourself for what I've become?" she asked, her voice ragged. Her eyes burned a faint gold as flashbacks poured through her mind: her poisoning, her betrayal, her rule over Camelot, her imprisonment with Aithusa for two years.

Merlin raised an eyebrow, memories of his own flashing through his mind. "Yes," he said. "And of course I blame myself for you. I should've helped you, I should've _told_ you about myself so you wouldn't have been so uncertain. But the loneliness? You've done that to yourself. Deep down, you knew you would never beat me. So you burned through all of your allies and tried to kill your enemies. But Morgause, Mordred, where are they now? And what about the Arthur you so dearly loved? Or Gwen, your best friend? You deserted _yourself."_

Morgana's face darkened, but she let go of his arm. "And what of _your_ loneliness, Merlin? I can't have been the cause for _all_ of it."

He shrugged, placing the bandage over her wound and sealing it to her skin with his fingers, which was a trick he'd taught himself in aiding Gaius. "Arthur was my only true tie to Camelot," he told Morgana, straightening himself. "After he died, my destiny was more or less forfeit. It didn't feel right to stay with Guinevere and have that dark shadow hanging over us…his death, _your_ death, just a shroud over the two of us. You ending up alive wouldn't have helped, either. The source of our spirits had always been Arthur, and without him, we lost…_everything._" He paused and swallowed, attempting to get rid of the small lump that had formed in his throat. "Gwen's Arthur, _your_ Arthur, and _my_ Arthur. Gone."

"So you're going to resurrect him," Morgana said, sighing through her nose.

Merlin almost balked at the fact that she had figured him out so quickly, but then he realized that there wasn't much else to suspect; of _course_ he would be planning to resurrect Arthur – it was his destiny to protect him and help him keep peace in Camelot. Arthur was his best friend. "Yes," he said simply.

Glaring at him, she pushed herself upward with her elbows, wincing slightly. Merlin stared back at her, his face a mask. Folding his hands in his lap, he leaned backwards on the stool. Morgana said, "What makes you so sure I'll do it? Remember, I'm the one who _massacred_ your friends."

"I'm perfectly aware of that," Merlin said curtly. "But you're also the last High Priestess of the Triple Goddess, and trying to resurrect a being with a destiny as powerful as Arthur's would kill me, therefore not allowing me to protect him, so I'm using you."

Morgana raised an eyebrow, her temper flaring. "So you're planning to, what, sacrifice me and my magic for what you want?"

"No. I should, because that's what you deserve, but I've chosen to share it. That way we both live. Camelot needs its _king."_ Merlin's voice was passionate, and his appreciation for all that Arthur was showed in his eyes.

"_I_ could've been king!" Morgana cried, infuriated. _"I_ could've been the Pendragon that ruled on the throne but _Arthur_ was Uther's favorite child, _Arthur_ was the glorious and beloved heir! I was fit to rule, but I was always second best to Arthur!"

Complete and utter rejection displayed itself across her face, hardened and wind-beaten from years of solitude, years of thinking of only one thing: revenge. Merlin felt a pang of pity for her, having witnessed these feelings long before she'd ever realized that she was Uther's daughter. Placing a hand on her shoulder, he said placidly, "It was written, Morgana. There's nothing you could've done to change anybody's destiny."

Awkwardly drawing his hand back, he said, "You will not get pity. And you will definitely not get mercy if you step one toe out of line. I've spelled this entire hovel so I will know if you try to leave." At Morgana's raised eyebrow, he said, "I've taught myself magic that hasn't been discovered, Morgana. I could take your magic away if I wished it." Placing a hand on her forehead, he pushed her head back so her neck was exposed. Brushing her tangled hair away from her face, he continued, "So don't think you can outwit me. You can't."

"And you think Gwen will not have heard that it was I who attacked Camelot, along with those men?" Morgana hissed. "That someone will have seen you leaving with me?" Merlin lived so close to Camelot that the hovel was surely visible from the castle itself.

Merlin just smiled. "Oh, I knew that long ago," he told her, raising his other hand and rubbing his thumb along his lower lip in thought. She noticed that her blood was still caked under his thumbnail from the night before and suppressed a shudder as he said, "In fact, we were followed here. And if the person who did so went back to report to Gwen what he saw, she should've sent someone to fetch us, right about…_now."_

As if on cue, there was a sharp knock at the door. Morgana sat up straight, her eyes wide. "What do we _do?"_ she breathed. At her weakened state, she knew that she would be defenseless against torture and probably killed once Gwen got hold of her.

Merlin raised an eyebrow at Morgana's use of the word 'we,' but simply shrugged and said, "We go with them." Raising his hand, he gestured for the door to open from across the room, and two knights burst through the threshold. "Welcome!" he said cheerfully, and Morgana was surprised to see that his former quiet mannerism had been discarded. Having been in his presence for not even a day and having seen so many changes in Merlin – most of which rang frightening – she wondered what else might've changed, and became desperate to find out.

She wanted to explore this reimagined Merlin, wanted to discover all his new, twisted pressure points. She wanted to awaken the darker part of him and manipulate the both that and the good part to her liking, but she was not strong enough; not now. She realized consciously that she could never truly best the greatest sorcerer in the world, but that didn't mean she couldn't play at him.

Bracing herself against the bed, she swung her legs around and lifted herself up so that she stood next to Merlin. He had stiffened when he saw the knights, and she raised her eyes to their faces just as Merlin whispered, "Sir Leon…Sir Percival."

_The only two I didn't manage to kill,_ Morgana thought bitterly. But as they stared at her with cruel looks on their faces, she felt bad for them.

There was an uncomfortable pause as Merlin stood staring at the two last Knights of the Round Table. They shuffled their feet and refused to make direct eye contact with the warlock and the witch, as Arthur's death still hung over them as well. "Merlin," Leon said finally. "We are here at Queen Guinevere's request. She's asked us to bring you guys to see her." Offhandedly and with a slightly humorous glint in his eyes, he added, "She also thinks it's rather rude that you didn't stop to say hello anyway."

Even though Leon was speaking to Merlin, Morgana stepped out from behind Merlin's shoulder and said, "Was my slaughtering part of your army not an appropriate greeting? I should have to check my manners." She raised a hand to her mouth as if shocked at her behavior, but grinned.

Suddenly, she lost her balance as a wave of heat washed over her. Stumbling, she fell sideways into Merlin, who caught her and gave her his arm to hold for support. Frowning, she wasn't sure if it was her fever that had caused it, or Merlin himself. She felt humiliated, but clutched his arm regardless. Her knees felt wobbly and her head had broken out in a cold sweat.

The knights stared at her coldly. "May I request a moment alone with Morgana before our departure?" Merlin said in a formal, slightly strained tone. "We'll meet you outside."

Exchanging a look, Leon and Percival's hands went to the hilts of their swords, sheathed at their sides. "I'm not so sure that's a good idea," said Percival, his eyes wary. He glanced between Merlin and Morgana.

Cocking an eyebrow, Merlin dropped all means of formality and crossed his arms over his chest, looking slightly offended but mostly insistent. "Boys," he said, "do you _really_ think that I'm going to slip out of your grasp? As if I've turned against you? Please! I've _felt_ you, every day, every time you've moved, since we last saw each other." Morgana's head snapped up at the words, as she recognized them as almost the exact thing he'd told her last night in her dreams, when they were standing on the gallows next to Mordred and Arthur, with the body of Uther Pendragon dead below her. Turning her head to stare slack-jawed at Merlin, she realized that he'd known she was alive all this time.

If Merlin had noticed – and he probably had – he didn't care. Continuing, he addressed the knights: "My allegiance will always be to Arthur, and I know that you are following in his footsteps. You have no reason to doubt me."

Bashfully, the knights let go of their swords and walked out the door. It felt very surreal to Morgana, and she wanted to ask Merlin about his knowing she was alive, but he interrupted her.

"Gwen won't imprison you, or harm you. No matter how she feels," he murmured to her. "Just as long as you do as I say, she won't hurt you."

Morgana frowned, looking slightly worried. "And why not?"

Merlin gave his careless smile again. "I'll tell her not to."

Rolling her eyes and fidgeting, Morgana hissed, "So your word is her religion or something?"

"Awfully presumptuous, aren't you?" Merlin said with a smile. "I haven't seen her for five years, but Gwen trusts me. I was Arthur's protector, and she knew that better than Arthur himself. So just do as I say and no one will hurt you."

He picked up the salve from the table and added a few things to his pockets, and when he turned to leave, Morgana caught hold of his arm, lightly holding his sleeve before letting go as he looked over his shoulder at her. Merlin was surprised to see a glimpse of the old Morgana reflecting through her now-hard exterior, but he said nothing; whatever she had to say, it was obviously important.

"When I first met you…those years…through and through, I have always seen how your heart is much kinder than my own. And it has shamed me," she said, her voice both weak from her fever and ragged from telling the truth.

"Everyone I've met always speaks of how kind they think me to be," Merlin murmured in response, glancing away from her before inhaling and looking back. "But everyone has a savage within them, something primal and selfish; dangerous. Mine has always raged within me. Yet it remains unseen, and all I receive for my sins are looks of praise and love…while the savage in me is forgotten."

The ghost of a half-smile appeared on Morgana's gaunt face, and she replied, "It is named Emrys."

* * *

When they arrived at the castle, both Merlin and Morgana were hit with pangs of nostalgia. Fleeting wistful looks danced across their faces and they recognized bits and pieces of their old lives. Leon and Percival gave them some space, sensing their dismay. Clearing a pathway for the sorcerers, they opened wide doors that lead to the main hall, where a dark-haired woman sat on the throne.

Merlin's steps bounced slightly in semblance to the light-hearted and good-natured boy that he'd been around Arthur, and Morgana, despite feeling as if she were about to collapse, held her chin up, her neck long, and her shoulders back, like the queen she was taught to be. Stalking into the throne room, two pairs of blue eyes met the pair of brown ones across the hall, and as Merlin moved to bow, Gwen stood up and walked briskly over to them. "Don't bow," she said warmly, although her voice was a little shrill. Raising her hand, she grasped his forearm in a way of greeting, smiling slightly as she stared up at him. Paying no attention to Morgana, her eyes widened as she took in all the changes in his face. "How have you been?" she asked, her voice suddenly thick.

Merlin's mouth curled into a half-smile. "The same," he replied quietly, and Morgana had to smirk at that. She knew Merlin had changed – she'd _seen_ it. "How have _you_ been?" Merlin asked Gwen, and she shrugged, saying, "Queen."

Leaving it at that, her eyes moved sharply to Morgana, and she looked the witch up and down, taking in Morgana's wild hair, sickly complexion, and tattered clothing. Raising an eyebrow, she said nothing. A look of fury overtook her entire body; her hands clenched into fists.

Morgana stared back at her former servant, a glint in her eyes as she smiled coyly at Guinevere. "I've been good, too," Morgana answered although Gwen didn't ask, drawing out the word 'good.' Suddenly, her head snapped to the right, and she raised a surprised hand to her left cheek, feeling the sting that Gwen's hand had left behind.

Raising her darkened eyes to the queen's once more, Morgana cocked an eyebrow. Gwen raised her hand to strike again, but Merlin deftly caught it, stepping slightly in front of Morgana. Two knights that he'd never seen before advanced towards them, but Gwen waved them off. Taking her arm back, she shot a glare at Merlin and said, "I want to know what you're doing here – the both of you. And why you're together."

"Would you believe it was chance?" Merlin said with another smile. Morgana tried not to roll her eyes, lifting her hand and curling her fingers into Merlin's sleeve. She felt woozy and she had chills; her side was starting to hurt.

Gwen, however, did roll her eyes. "Only with you, Merlin," she said. "I suspect there are…things I need to hear about?" She raised her eyebrows, and he nodded. "Follow me," she told them, turning on her heel to walk towards a more private area.

Following, Merlin placed an arm behind Morgana and pushed her along in front of him. Picking up her skirts, she scowled at him and walked along as they were led towards a smaller room. Everything looked greyer than it had been when they lived there, and Merlin noticed the lack of color besides. Gwen's dress, a deep shade of orange, only looked the color of rust; the tapestries surrounding them seemed to have collected dust or shadows and were not the vibrant red that had so complemented Arthur's blond hair, blue eyes, and pale-gold complexion.

Morgana remembered running through these halls with Arthur when she'd first arrived here, when she was about ten years old. He had been a brat to her from the start, but she hadn't cared; she had beaten him with her sword too many times to be afraid of him. But as their childhood grew into their adolescence and then into their adulthood, she remembered dreading the day that Arthur would become king; he was too rash, wanting to impress everyone so badly. But then Merlin appeared, softening the prince and making him more mature, albeit still rude.

Swallowing, the familiar hatred that Morgana had become so used to filled her stomach, and her eyes darkened as she looked at the floor. Passing tapestry after tapestry, she cursed her former ignorance. Once, she had gazed into the mirror, finding places in her face that looked like Uther's and thinking that they could be related. Oh, how foolish she had been.

Once they were alone, Gwen turned to face Merlin and said, "One of you is trouble enough, whether it be good or bad. The two of you together is something I never thought I'd see. You'd best explain yourself, Merlin. Quickly. _She_ has taken the lives of many men this past week."

Merlin nodded gravely, pushing past the subject. Taking a few steps forward, he searched for words. "Well, you see, I had an idea a long time ago, about how my destiny would work out, as, er, Arthur is…you know," he stammered, wincing slightly at Gwen's pale face. Obviously, she hadn't gotten over her husband's death yet, and probably never would. It was a sad thought, but it inspired Merlin's plans even further. "And—"

Morgana cut in, irritated at all the useless beating around the bush. "Merlin wants to resurrect your dear Arthur and he thinks he'd die if he did it alone, so Fate of course brought me to him, through the guise of a battle." When she put it that way, she realized that maybe Merlin's destiny _had_ come in to play – she remembered the sudden need to attack Camelot rushing at her from all directions a mere week before the event.

Fidgeting, Gwen turned from her to stare at Merlin once more. "Is this true?" she murmured, her eyes distant. Swallowing, Merlin nodded. "Yes," he said. "I've figured it out; I've taught myself everything I need to know to be able to bring him back. I've seen the future, Gwen; it won't happen unless I do something to help it."

"And what of Morgana?" Gwen said, displeased. "She'll just try to kill him as soon as he's on his feet."

Morgana said nothing, focusing on a point on the wall and ignoring everything else. Her face fell flat in complete annoyance; she almost couldn't bear to listen to the sentiment being passed between her two former friends. Merlin stepped closer to Gwen, murmuring, "Trust me, Gwen. I wouldn't be trying this if I didn't have it all perfectly planned out. I've learned to plot correctly, now."

Frowning, Morgana replayed the thought of Merlin's destiny influencing her decision to attack Camelot. What had he said earlier? To the knights and in her dream? _I felt you every day. I felt you every time you moved._ Maybe Merlin's destiny hadn't given her the push, but Merlin himself. Glancing at Merlin, she wondered what kind of magic he had learned over the years since she'd last seen him. Obviously, it was something dark; his face was thinner, his cheekbones and eyes sharper, his shoulders were broader and his arms were better muscled. He was still slender, but there was a definite burden resting on top of him.

Tears welled in Gwen's eyes at the thought of having Arthur back, but she managed to make a joke. "I'll believe that when I see it," she said, smiling sadly. "I…approve of this, I guess. Camelot needs its king. I need my king, and you need yours." Sniffing, she added, "You're welcome to stay here for the night. Is, er…?" She gestured to Morgana, and Merlin realized she wondered if Morgana was a threat.

Shaking his head, he said, "She's very ill; she was wounded yesterday and woke up this morning with an infection." He'd given his salve to Leon, who had taken it to whoever had replaced Gauis as the Court Physician – just to make sure the witch hadn't spelled it and made it poison in any way, Leon had explained. They definitely didn't want the death of a third ruler.

"You forgot the best part," Morgana interrupted, referring to Merlin shoving his thumb deep into her injury. Smiling wickedly, she still stared at the wall, but she knew that if she looked, she would still be able to see the blood caked underneath his fingernail.

Merlin recognized the reference and said quickly, "And I bound her magic. She won't be able to even try to sever the bindings until she's fully recuperated, which makes it easier for us. We don't require that much time for Arthur, you see."

Gwen nodded. "I see. Well; I'll have one of the servants lead you two to…well, you know where to go, so forget it. Pick any room you like. I'll post guards," she said, waving a hand and eyeing Morgana with a disgusted expression. She looked back to Merlin, and he nodded his agreement.

* * *

It didn't take long for Merlin to pick Arthur's room. Taking Morgana by the arm and leading her towards the king's former quarters, he dragged her a little roughly before shoving her inside the door and closing it.

Stumbling but not losing her balance, Morgana rounded on Merlin. "You knew I was not truly dead. 'I felt you every day. I felt you every time you moved,'" she quoted, her eyes fierce. "You said that once to me in my dreams and you said it to those knights back at your hovel. Do not think I can't figure you out, Merlin. You knew I was not truly dead."

Glancing around the room and pushing down the swelling sense of guilt that had overtaken him upon entering the castle, Merlin was silent for a moment before he said, "I don't know what you want me to say, Morgana. Do you want me to fight you? I'll fight you. A year passed before I came to my senses and realized I could…_feel _your presence in the world. I could feel it as clearly as I felt Gauis. That's how I knew you were alive." He tried to focus on her, but the world around him felt as if it were crashing towards him at full speed; everything looked as if Arthur still lived, still acted like a clotpole to Merlin in here every single day.

"Why didn't you search for me? Why didn't you hunt me down? I know how badly you want revenge," Morgana taunted him, her face twisting towards deranged. "All those years, and you never once tried to slit my throat?" She stepped closer to him, face turned upward, watching his eyes refocus on her and begin to blaze. Now that she had his attention, she looked wicked.

Her raised chin exposed her neck and he grabbed it after a second, squeezing and pushing her backwards until she lost her balance and had to clutch at his arm for support so she could right herself. An immature giggle bubbled out of Merlin, and he said, "I wanted to, I want to. I have dreams of it. Appearing over your sleeping form in the night, causing you unimaginable pain, and then slitting your throat and bathing in the blood of the _witch_ who killed Arthur. But you know why I don't?"

Morgana faltered as she stared up into his burning gold eyes. "Why?" she rasped, choking and clawing at his hand. Her fingers came away bloody and she realized she had torn through his skin, but Merlin didn't flinch. She wondered if he could even _feel_ it.

"Because I _see _you, Morgana. Every part of you, down to the bone. I see who you are now, and what made you that way. I see who you were back then, and I know that _that_ Morgana has not yet died. You can't kill her because, like all of us, _you_ miss her too. I didn't come kill you because I was trying to _forgive _you."

Morgana didn't respond. Her eyes welled up with tears that she wanted to believe were from not being able to breathe. Her vision started spinning as Merlin said, "So tell me: why did _you_ wait so long to attack Camelot? Why didn't you come find me?" He let go of her so she could answer, and her hands flew to her throat.

Coughing, she tasted blood. She backed against the wall and watched him with wary, almost feral eyes, like a crazed animal. The tears escaped her and tumbled down her cheeks as she took ragged breaths. "I don't know," she wailed, collapsing against the wall and holding her head in her hands. She coughed again before saying, "Because I had to forgive _myself!_ I never wanted to rule Camelot with cruelty. I wanted everyone to love me, to cherish me as they cherished Arthur and Gwen!"

"Do you think they could ever forgive you for what you did if you returned and became queen?" Merlin asked, angered. "Were you so foolish as to believe they would ever let you rule them again, after what you've done?"

Morgana sobbed, turning her face away and pounding against the wall with her fist. "Go away!" she screeched. "Can't you see you've broken me? You've gotten what you wanted, now leave me be!"

Merlin smiled a vicious smile, his eyes dark gold. He heard a clatter outside the room, and, turning towards the door, he noticed it was slightly open. Walking over to the door and standing just inside so that no one could see in or out, he peered around the edge of the door to see what had clattered.

His eyes met Gwen's before he realized her presence, and after staring at each other in a surprised silence, Merlin smiled at his long-time friend and looked at the ground. "You dropped your…food?" he questioned, bending to pick up the discarded bread and fruit. "Was this for Morgana? I'll clean it," he said, concentrating on the food.

Gwen stood still, her eyes wide and her mouth slightly slack as if she were horrified. Her hands were empty and numb at her sides, and Merlin realized she'd witnessed what had just happened inside Arthur's room. Falling silent, he straightened and stared down at her accusing eyes.

She'd seen it: the strangling, the mocking; the relentless glee in causing another person pain. His expression was now devoid of joy with an underline of something depraved, and it only seemed to fuel her alarm. In a quietly enraged voice, as if she was so revolted by his brutal behavior that she could hardly speak, Gwen whispered, "What _happened _to you?"


	3. Into the Night

**Author's Note:** Hello again, lovely readers! Sorry for the wait; I went on vacation and was without internet. But alas, here is the third chapter! I love this fic dearly, and I hope you do, too. As always, reviews are peaches and cream, so please leave your thoughts! :) Enjoy!

* * *

Merlin closed his mouth, which had fallen slightly slack at Guinevere's words. A muscle in his jaw jumped as he stared at Gwen's shocked face; her eyes were wide, and in response to her alarm, the guards who had followed her were now at their sides, swords drawn. Merlin fought the urge to giggle; didn't they know their blades would be defenseless to his magic?

He was genuinely sorry – well, half of him was. He wanted to calm Gwen, to explain; give her a reason not to kill both Morgana and himself then and there. Feeling a pang of despair, he realized that what was needed here was Arthur's presence: Arthur wouldn't doubt him, not after everything they'd been through. Not even if Merlin was suddenly in an alliance, albeit forced and strained, with Morgana. But underneath all the sincere want for peace and understanding, a burning anger boiled within his cavernous center.

Not one day ago, his secret had been perfectly intact. No one knew; no one would even guess that Merlin of all people had something to hide, now that his magic was public. He had layered the darker side of himself underneath a hundred barriers, giving it a name and banishing it from the noble kingdom of his mind; thus falsifying that very kingdom by ignoring the core of it.

All at once, Merlin felt selfish. Pushing that part of him back within its walls, he took a deep breath and said, "I don't know how to make you understand." To be honest, he really didn't; he couldn't cover up his magic with a lie anymore, because everyone knew about it, and everyone knew that magic could turn black and ugly – Morgana was a living example.

Gwen's voice shook as she said, "Merlin, what have you done to yourself? Has the well of your magic eaten at the walls of your sanity? I thought I would know you when we crossed paths again." Her voice was now a whisper, but her hands clenched into fists. The guards on either side of her exchanged glances, unsure of what to do.

Merlin looked down, wishing he could meet her eyes. Searching for words, he stared pathetically at the tray of food in his hands before turning and walking back to Morgana. The entire room stiffened at his movement, but he ignored it. Staring down at Morgana, he crouched next to her and once again he almost apologized. Raising a hand and pausing as she flinched, he cupped the part of her head where her jaw met her neck and pushed her chin up so he could see her face.

Tear-streaked and feverishly pale, Morgana's face was a mess. She stared back at him coldly, hatred boiling in her veins as her blue eyes met his. Even though she felt scalded by what he'd done, the look of worry on his face almost made her forgive him a little. She wanted to curse his honest face.

"Morgana," he murmured gently, raising a thumb to wipe away some of the tears. Lowering his hand to grab hers, he closed her fingers around the tray in his other hand and said, "Eat."

Taking the food, she swallowed around the rough lump in her throat, her voice raspy as she said, "No, don't be kind to me. I've seen what sort of monster you are." Speaking quietly so Gwen couldn't hear, she continued, "But you are a monster unlike myself."

Slightly taken aback, Merlin leaned away a little before saying in the same hushed tone, "I fear that might be true."

Standing up abruptly, he stared down at her before turning away. He also feared the opposite; that maybe they both were wrong and he was the same kind of demon as she was. In all his years, out of everyone he'd fought, Morgana had always seemed to be the worst. They had been so alike in the beginning – gentle but clever when provoked, light and wary of what sort of trouble they'd find themselves in should their magic be revealed.

But then, as if they were seasons changing, she had turned to winter while he changed into fall. She became cold and cruel, inconsolable and hazardous. It had been the beginning of the end, and he'd felt it in his bones. Now, it seemed, that end had long passed them by. Arthur's impending death had been the final stage, and Merlin had transitioned into a winter much crueler than Morgana's. Where she was almost always in control of herself, he came rashly; unbidden.

Dragging the tips of his fingers along the rough stone wall to his left, he walked lightly back to Gwen, whose stern, disconcerted gaze bored holes into his head. "Gwen," he said calmly, looking at her apologetically. "I believe we need to speak in private." He gestured to Morgana over his shoulder, and was surprised to find that Gwen ignored his request.

"Whatever needs to be said, you can say it here," she demanded. With a glance he noticed that her fists were clenched so tightly that her knuckles were white, and tears had welled up into her eyes.

Merlin closed his eyes, nodding to himself as he thought, _She needs to know and she needs to know _now._ But Morgana can't hear this, not yet. If I have my way, she'll _never_ hear it._ His leg was jumping impatiently, and in front of him, his fingers fidgeted slightly. Opening his eyes, he swallowed and looked off to the side.

Seconds seemed to roll by like the shadows of clouds on a windy day, and he watched the flame of a nearby candle dance around on its wick. He felt as if the whole world had stopped breathing, waiting for his response. Eyeing the soldiers' swords, he searched for words. Wetting his lips, he murmured, "Having a destiny as large as mine was crueler than anyone could've expected. There was always a sort of darkness in me, in what I am. Magic isn't easy, Gwen. And my magic was meant to protect Arthur." He took a deep breath, raising his eyes to hers. "So when he was killed, the darkness became larger; more powerful. I have wandered for so long without a purpose."

White winter skies and snow blowing in his face flashed back to him; the cold months after Arthur's death had seemed to last an eternity. He barely ate, he spoke to no one, he hid himself away in woods and waters. Most of his friends were dead. It all could've been avoided if he'd only seen what Morgana and Mordred would become. If he'd listened to his intuition, to the thing that buzzed in the back of his brain whenever the Morgana of the yesteryears spoke of her magic, this could've been avoided.

He should've told her about his magic, he shouldn't have kept it a secret. He could have used her as an ally rather than watch her turn into a cold sorceress. Swallowing audibly, Merlin continued, "Sometimes it's hard to control. I feel my grip loosen, and it slips through my fingers, much like Arthur did." Like Morgana did.

His eyebrows furrowed and he studied the cobblestone wall behind the guard to his right. "I try to keep hold of it. I try to avoid anyone I might hurt. But…when Morgana came close, it made me walk to her. I couldn't even control my own legs. It led me straight to her; it whispered secrets to me, secrets about resurrection, about waking the dead. I couldn't help but listen."

Guinevere's warm brown eyes had turned cold and sad as she listened to him. They were red around the rims, but she had blinked away any tears that tried to escape. Her hands were balled into fists at her sides, clutching the fabric of her skirt. "You believe that you can wake my husband with your magic," she began, "because some evil part of you said you could? And it told you to use the help of the woman who killed Arthur?"

Merlin's eyebrows rose forlornly. "What would you have chosen, Gwen, if it had been your mind speaking to you like this?" He clutched his head with his hands, tangling his fingers into his hair in mild exasperation. She didn't reply, so he went on, "What would you choose to do when you've been pushed towards the edge every single day for _five years, _when you've watched most of your friends' deaths? I've been driven crazy, Gwen. I have no purpose now, and I will live until Arthur comes to his natural, supposed death. But how could I do that when he's dead?"

Shaking her head, the widowed queen stared up at her old friend. "I don't know, Merlin," she told him. "I don't know what I would've chosen. Arthur was my husband! If someone offered his reappearance to me as easily as it's been offered to you, I wouldn't _know._ I know he didn't die a natural death and I miss him, unbearably so, but it's been years. What if he's found peace somewhere else?"

"What if he hasn't?" Merlin questioned, his eyes desperate. His tone was hushed, but pleading. "Camelot needs a king, Gwen. Camelot needs _Arthur._ The once and future king! I believe wholeheartedly that he will rise again, and now I finally have everything I need to make that so."

"My god, Merlin, you _have_ been driven insane." Gwen's voice wavered, and she raised a hand to her mouth. "Why didn't you seek Morgana out before? If this…this _darkness_ has been whispering to you for so long? Why didn't you do it right away?"

He shook his head, hands splaying out in front of him to show he had no answer. "I don't know," he murmured. "I don't know."

Gwen crossed her arms, her lip wobbling with emotion. "I think you should've killed Morgana when you had the chance, Merlin. Who's to say she won't play some trick as soon as Arthur's alive again? She can't be trusted. But you always seem to believe in the _good_ in people. I'm telling you, Merlin, she's evil. And she should be executed." Her voice was quiet but firm.

Merlin was shocked that she thought Morgana should've been killed, but after a moment of consideration, he understood. "I've bound her, Gwen," he told the queen. "You know that. She's too weak to fight me right now."

"It doesn't matter, Merlin. This isn't just about her magic," Gwen said, her voice breaking as her eyes watered again. "Merlin, she killed _Arthur._ I know you wish she was dead, too. It's – it's _all_ her fault."

Bowing his head, Merlin fidgeted with the bottom of his shirt. Closing his eyes, he nodded to her. Merlin understood completely – Morgana had been the one, time and time again, to attack Arthur. She'd crafted a sword that could kill him. She was the person who had destroyed everything by killing the beloved king. _And yet…_Merlin shook his head, opening his eyes and raising them to meet those of the queen.

"No, Gwen," he said quietly, his tone morose. "It wasn't her fault, it was mine. True, she killed him, but it was I who let it happen. I could've stopped her becoming what she is; I could've told her about my magic and gained a friend and ally. I could've stopped Mordred, even. But I didn't. And now Arthur's dead." His voice cut off and he dipped his head down again, swallowing hard. He hated thinking about it; hated thinking about how if he hadn't been so hopeful that the good in Morgana would change her views, Arthur wouldn't have died. Merlin had had a million chances to kill both Morgana and Mordred, but he'd put his faith in them. _We could've protected Arthur together,_ he thought sadly.

_But that,_ he pondered,_ that's what provoked this malevolent part of me: the loss of my own faith. Maybe I had too much; too much empathy, too much hope. And that was my fatal flaw – only it wasn't me who died, but Arthur._

So softly that Guinevere almost couldn't make out what he was saying, he said, "It's my fault, Gwen. And that's why I have to do this."

Staring at him, Gwen was once again shocked at how old Merlin seemed; he'd grown taller, become leaner, and even had a slight shadow of stubble on his face. Letting her arms fall to her sides, she raised her hand for the guards to sheath their swords. "I feel so very foolish, letting you and this _witch_ stay under my own roof. It feels like asking for trouble. You leave in the morning, and you keep your promise to bring back my husband."

Merlin nodded, his eyes downcast. This was the part he'd most wanted to avoid – the distance growing between himself and Gwen as soon as she realized he wasn't the boy he used to be. He wasn't even sure if he was a boy at all anymore; he only felt like a monster.

"Alright," he intoned, nodding his head numbly.

Guinevere turned away, skirts swishing as she walked away with her two knights. He closed the door quietly, turning to face Arthur's room. Sauntering towards Arthur's bed, he sat down wearily and listened to Morgana breathing.

He wasn't sure if she was awake or not until she drew in an uneven breath and said, "Why didn't you tell me about your magic, Merlin? When I told you of mine?" Her voice was low and bitter, but he recognized a trace of the old Morgana's dignified tone under the bitterness.

Sighing, he looked away from her and raised a hand to rub his neck, which had started to hurt. He wondered if he should even answer, but the better part of him told him that Morgana deserved to know. Shaking his head at himself, he said, "Because I didn't know you well enough to be certain that you wouldn't go to Uther or Arthur. I had to keep it a very close secret, just as you did with yours. I understand you think I should've returned the trust you gave me when you confided in me, but there was too much risk."

She chuckled once, mirthlessly. "Who knows? We could've been friends. We could've protected this kingdom together."

"Thinking you were the only one with magic in a castle that hated it isn't the reason you turned on us all," Merlin told her, looking down at the floor with a blank expression. "It was the realization that you were Uther's daughter just as much as Arthur was his son."

"I had it all ripped away from me, Merlin. My entire future. I grew up under the impression that I was to be queen, Arthur's wife and everything. Camelot, by birthright, is _my_ kingdom just as much as it was Arthur's. I should've been queen." She turned her face away and picked at her food, rolling a piece of bread into a small ball between her thumb and forefinger. She said, "I never thought he'd be my brother."

Merlin snorted, shrugging. "I never thought Uther would be your father," he replied. "You were so caring, and he was so…snide." He didn't need to tell her twice that he saw her father in her now.

She popped the piece of bread into her mouth and said nothing, her face still turned away from him. He glanced up at her, wondering if she was even listening, and quietly said, "I see your compassion. I know who you really are, Morgana. And you are not _this."_

Turning her head and piercing Merlin with her cold blue eyes, Morgana said, "Oh, dear, I fear you've misjudged me. Again." Lifting herself onto her palms and adjusting her weight so she was facing him, she continued, "How is it that, after everything, you're still so reluctant to believe that people could turn on Arthur?"

He shrugged, challenging her eye contact with his own cold eyes. "I know better than to think that, Morgana. I thought he was a clotpole most of the time I was around him, but even then, I understood his destiny and the fact that he was naïve." Tilting his head to the side, he leaned back and splayed his hands over the red duvet that covered Arthur's bed, digging his nails into the fabric.

Squinting across the room at the sorcerer, Morgana shook her head and made a rude noise. Fidgeting with her skirt, she said, "He'll try to kill you as soon as you resurrect him, Merlin. What are you scheming that makes you think you can change that?"

"Queen Guinevere and I can change it, no doubt," Merlin said, shrugging again. Blinking slowly, he added, "Uther's fingers were as tight around Arthur as they are around you."

Angered by his words, Morgana hastily got to her feet, brushing crumbs off of her skirt as she stared him down. She paced toward him, her brisk steps echoing on the cobblestone floor as her eyes flashed a dim yellow. "Do not speak of Uther," she snarled.

Merlin's nails were still dug into the blanket on the bed beneath him, and his torso was wide open for her to sink a dagger into, if she'd had one. _But Morgana is not one for blades, not now that she's got magic,_ he thought, unfazed. His head tilted to the side again, and he looked flatly at her as he said, "And what if I do speak of him? What would you do?"

Feeling her temper flare as she leaned over him, Morgana stared down at his eyes, which burned gold at her in return before fading into his usual blue. She knew very well that he'd somehow bound her – possibly the night before, when she'd been ill and asleep. She also knew that even if she hadn't been bound, she still would've been too weak to match him.

And then she knew that even at the peak of her power, she still could not beat Merlin. She, the last High Priestess of the Triple Goddess, was no match for the most powerful sorcerer in the world. Narrowing her eyes, she calmed down enough to ignore his challenge. "What are you scheming, Merlin?" she asked, this time in a softer voice. "Necromancy can only raise the dead. In the end, Arthur would still be a dead body, only reanimated. A ghost in a shell."

A corner of Merlin's mouth turned up at her words, and he lazily raised his eyebrows, waiting for her to continue. She stared down at him, taking in his brown jacket, his red shirt, his black pants, and his boots. Noting that he was without his usual accessory of a neckerchief, she rolled her eyes at herself. "But of course you know that," she said. "And so, my guess is that you're planning to use me to somehow go beyond the normal repertoire of necromancy and restore Arthur to what he once was. Is my magic some sort of sacrifice to that? Or are you afraid that even you are not strong enough to do something so unheard of?"

He licked his lips, looking through his lashes up at her, his entire body relaxed. "I'm not afraid, Morgana," he began. His eyes closed and when they opened, they were that burning, smoldering gold again, and she felt something within her shift. "You're wrong on both accounts, although those options would prove great alternatives. However I am confident in my ability and my 'schemes,' so all you have to do is be patient."

Every muscle in his body moved at once as he pushed off of his palms and grabbed her by the arm, leaning forward and pulling her down until she knelt in front of him as he sat on the bed. His fingers dug into her forearm but she didn't protest; she was too intrigued by his actions, so she remained silent.

Their eyes were almost level now. His eyes were slightly above hers, but he was bent towards her so that their faces were mere inches apart. The hand that wasn't on Morgana's arm slid up and brushed her wild hair away from her face, and he looked into her eyes as if he were reading her. His irises still burned gold, and Morgana wasn't sure whether to be awestruck or fearful of what he was about to say.

"Do you fear that you won't make it out alive, Morgana?" he breathed, seemingly petting her hair back against her head. It was untamed but his fingers didn't tangle in it, and she hated herself for wishing that they would; wishing that he would give her that contact.

Taking a moment to compose herself, Morgana contemplated her answer. This game that they were immersed in was a strange yet magnificent blend of swordplay and chess; therefore she had to be wise in two different ways.

Her hands were at her sides, but she raised her right hand – the hand whose arm wasn't clasped in Merlin's grasp – and traced along his left shin, up until she could rest her palm on his knee. She still craved contact, and so she dug her fingernails into his leg, feeling him stiffen slightly at her touch. With a smile that made her look as if she were baring her teeth, she said in the same quiet, heavy tone, "I'm only curious."

His fingers tightened in her hair, tangling in the way that she loved; the tips of his fingers brushed against her scalp as he gripped her hair and pulled her head slightly back. Leaning into his hand, Morgana still smiled, and dared to move her hand up his thigh, trailing her nails a bit more lightly than before. Breathing in his mixed scent, spices and woods and herbs, she sat there, chest heaving, and stared into his golden eyes.

He looked at her, ignoring her hand on his thigh, and noted that she was inching closer, between his legs; getting out of line. His other hand still clutched her arm, and he forced his face to remain neutral as he said, "I wouldn't want to spoil the ending, then, would I?"

She wondered if he had shifted into the other, darker Merlin. His eyes looked like a cross between the cynical Merlin of old and the sadistic Merlin of new, and suddenly she was wary of letting her guard down like this. She'd practically put herself in his hands.

The memory of feeling his thumbnail scrape against her rib bone made her tear her hand away from his thigh, pushing away from him as she tried to stand. Merlin sensed the change in atmosphere and stood, grabbing her by the elbow and spinning her slightly before pushing her back so that she fell onto the bed. Bouncing slightly, she stared up at him, equal parts horrified and wondering, but all he did was walk towards the window of Arthur's room.

Stopping to stare out the window at the midnight blue sky, Merlin reached down and grabbed the satchel that he'd carried with him to the castle. Turning back to Morgana, he closed the distance between them and half-sat on the bed, spilling the contents of the bag out onto the blanket. Morgana stared, and he picked up bandages and the salve he'd made earlier that day to show her his intentions.

Morgana swallowed, averting her eyes as his fingers prodded the wound on her abdomen, peeling away the old bandages and dabbing salve onto the scabs. Her entire body felt too hot, and she knew he noticed although his body was hot as well; she could tell by the way his hands shook that this was _Merlin_ Merlin, not the darker version of the sorcerer from earlier.

She remembered that, almost an hour ago, he'd lashed out at her, and that it had been around the same time he'd lashed out the day before. Unsure whether this was a coincidence or a pattern, Morgana raised her eyes to stare at Merlin as he re-bandaged her side.

"Yesterday, you said you would 'share' my magic. What do you mean when you say that?" she asked, her voice suddenly hoarse.

Merlin reached around to her left side and slid her skirt up until the wound on the side of her left leg was exposed. It had done much better than her other wound, and while he could reason that this was because most of her vital organs were located in her abdomen and not her leg, he knew it was because he'd pressed his thumb deep into that wound and not this one.

"Like I said, you'll see," he murmured, dabbing a bit of the salve onto her leg and replacing the bandage. "Now it's best you sleep, because we're leaving bright and early to get my things tomorrow."

Packing the salve and bandages into his bag along with some other items, he grabbed one of the pillows on the bed sauntered away, plopping his bag down next to the window and sitting next to it.

Morgana was too pale and sick to blush, but she would've any other time. Turning away from Merlin, she stared at the wall until he put out the torches' flames with a few murmured words, leaving the room in a dark blue hue. She felt the dreams calling to her from her subconscious; she felt cold oceans and shiny daggers and bloody kisses tantalize her, begging her to fall asleep so that they may surface and tell her secrets.

Closing her eyes as if to keep those secrets within her mind, she felt increasingly ill, and that made her tired. If she listened closely, she could hear Merlin whispering spells to her, making sure she wouldn't be able to leave the bed during the night. At first she thought this ludicrous and unnecessary, but then she heard Merlin get up a little over an hour later.

He was silent as he opened the window and slid outside, and she didn't dare turn over to see if he was flying or walking down the side of the castle to the street. Either way, she knew he'd reached the ground when the window tapped shut.

Sitting up, Morgana stared out into the darkness behind the window, but she could see nothing. Attempting to get out of the bed to walk towards the window, she found that he had indeed spelled her into being unable to leave the bed; it was like he'd placed a glass dome over the top of it.

She wondered where he'd gone to at such a late hour, or why he would leave even though he knew she wasn't asleep. Contemplating sitting on the bed and waiting for his return, Morgana crossed her tired legs underneath her and tried to fight the fatigue, but in the end it won. She fell back against Arthur's pillows, succumbing to the warmth of the bed and the promise of secrets that fluttered like butterflies behind her eyelids.

* * *

In her dream, Morgana was sent back to sitting with her hands chained in her living grave, starving and cold. Everything was dark and she heard Aithusa's sad keening, but even magic could not break her chains.

"It was your only goal," said a voice in the darkness. Flinching, Morgana lifted her head to stare blindly into the darkness, searching for the source of the voice. It sounded like Merlin, but when a torch lit to her left, she saw that it was not Merlin, but instead Uther. Still, he spoke with Merlin's voice. "It was your only goal, and now that he's dead, what do you want to do?"

Shaking her head, she stared down at her lap in shock. "Arthur's dead," she said. "I killed him. I loved him, and I killed him." An unbidden tear rolled down her cheek, and she used the shoulder of her dress to scrub it away

Uther nodded impatiently. "But you are still not Camelot's queen." He shifted his weight and stared at her with hardened eyes.

"I am also eternally bitter," she snapped, glaring at him in the glowing orange of the torch's flame. Once again the colors reminded her of Merlin's burning eyes, and her own eyes narrowed as she wondered if he was watching her, even now. She _felt_ like she was being watched, and it was possible that he was using Uther as a puppet to talk to her.

Her brow furrowed. _But Merlin left, in the middle of the night._

Uther moved to grab her attention. Pointedly meeting her eyes, he raised his eyebrows and asked, "Arthur's death was your only goal, Morgana, and since you've already killed him, what will you do when he rises again?"

Morgana groaned in frustration, yanking hard against her shackles. "Am I in Hell?" she hissed. "I must be condemned to this…_living grave,_ and watching Aithusa suffer, and listening to Merlin talk while he wears your mask." She pulled on the chains again, but stopped when she felt the cold metal cut her flesh.

Blood trickled halfway down her wrist before it stopped and started to dry, and she bit back angry tears. She would not cry in front of Uther.

The wall of the cell was rough against her bent spine, so she turned to the side and leaned into Aithusa, who nuzzled her gently. The dragon was warm, and Morgana's heart burned at the thought of the pain she must be in; to be growing in such a cramped prison, to know she was being crippled every moment of every day…

"I'll kill him again," she whispered fiercely, her eyes angry and cold. "I'd kill my beloved brother a thousand times if it meant magic could be free in the kingdom." Even years after Uther's death, she would still defy him at all costs. He was her immortal enemy, it seemed.

"Beloved?" he repeated, raising an eyebrow. "And here I thought you hated my son." His words sounded strange when they were spoken in Merlin's voice.

Glaring at him, she rolled her eyes and said, "Hate does not cancel out love. I know that appears unfathomable to such a…corrupt simpleton." She fought the urge to spit on his face and again yanked on her chains, ignoring the pain of the metal slicing into her skin.

More blood ran down her arms. "No, I merely thought you were a hateful creature, and exclusive to hate. No love left. But if I'm wrong, I'm wrong," he said, shrugging again. Her scowl deepened, but he continued, "And what love do you have for me, Morgana?"

There came a pause, and they sat in silence, staring at each other. Tilting her head to the side, the witch asked, "You as in Uther, or you as in Merlin?" She still wasn't sure whether it was Uther speaking to her with Merlin's voice, or Merlin speaking to her with Uther's face.

Uther's face stretched into a grin as he said, "Both." She wanted to shudder at the eeriness of Merlin's tone coming out of Uther, but she stifled it by shifting her weight and looking at Aithusa.

"There was never any love for Uther." She swallowed hard, taking a breath and continuing, "He murdered my father, lied about my birth, denied me my rightful throne, and abolished magic because he was afraid of what it could do."

Shaking her head and raising her eyes to his before looking away again, she murmured, "I always hated him. Even when I thought I loved him for taking care of me, I knew that was false. I just never knew why. He…betrayed me, manipulated me, and ultimately was detrimental to my survival, as a witch and as a queen. So he had to be stopped."

She thought back to the assassins, her attempts on his life, other people's attempts on his life, and the ghost of a smile danced on her face. She remembered his ignorance, his arrogance, and his oppression. All of which Arthur had inherited; all of which Arthur would uphold to please his late father.

_I would bathe in the blood of my unscrupulous kin over and over again,_ she thought sadly, _if it meant my kind could have a future. These men…my father, and my brother, traitorous and duplicitous; they will never learn. And that is the price I must pay for my magic. _

A single tear slipped down her cheek, but she hid it by turning her face the opposite direction. "I didn't choose my magic; my magic chose me," she said, her voice shaking. "There is no other way."

Uther caught her eye again, but she looked away as Merlin's voice asked, "And what about Merlin? What love do you have for Merlin?" She noticed the lack of identification in his words; no 'me' or 'him' to reveal whether the person she was speaking to was the late king or the powerful sorcerer. Another pause stretched out between her and Uther's ghost who spoke with Merlin's voice, and everything seemed to go loud and fast all at once – the torch's flame kept flickering, her arms kept bleeding, and Aithusa kept keening.

But Morgana was silent.


	4. The End of You

Merlin walked for hours. After slipping out of the window and jumping to the ground, he'd landed lightly on his feet and searched his surroundings for citizens or guards, but the streets were empty. Everything was painted a dark blue, and the cool night air felt velvety against his face. Wandering to the edge of the city, he turned and cast a brief glance over the rooftops and the tall castle in the distance.

"I'll be back shortly," he had murmured.

Ambling slowly but with purpose towards the nearest patch of woods, he mulled over recent events. His relationship with Guinevere seemed irreparable, but he knew better than to believe that it couldn't be fixed. Merlin needed her help in convincing Arthur to spare his life as soon as the king was resurrected – Gwen, as queen, hadn't persecuted him for the usage of magic, and if Merlin could show Arthur that magic wasn't all dark and uncontrollable, he felt that he would be safe. If there was anyone Arthur would listen to, it was his wife and best friend. Merlin could only hope that words would be enough to change Arthur's views.

He thought carefully about the knights, and their reactions to seeing him. Percival and Leon were the only original knights left, and they had seemed wary of Merlin and Morgana, but he couldn't exactly blame them. How many of their friends had died due to magic? How many had Morgana killed knowingly?

Merlin held himself responsible for Morgana, but he wasn't sure whether the others did as well. Guinevere had certainly seemed accusing, and that was painful enough, but it was something that he had to live with. Especially after she had seen the more…barbaric side of him.

And that side of Merlin was barbaric indeed; it called out to him every second of every minute, whispering to his mind and telling him what terrible things he could do to the innocent people living in Camelot. Every home he'd passed on the way out of the city gained him a cruel song playing in his head, telling him to burst through their doors, untamed and laughing; aggressive in his pursuit of their fear.

_Imagine how much stronger their blood would make magic,_ his brain had said to him. _Your own blood is so powerful, but the blood of another? Isn't it so very tempting, Merlin?_

He wanted to carve out his insides, all his organs and bones, to exorcise himself of the malevolent voice. He knew what losing control felt like. He knew it felt like his brain had slipped underwater and he was unable to breathe, except that his lungs could function, but all he could do was watch as _something else_ took over his body. At the same time, he was in complete control of himself; he felt stronger, wilder, more beautiful and whole.

Morgana had called that savage Emrys, as if she could identify exactly who he was. It made Merlin shudder, to think that Emrys – the core of his soul – was something devilish and inhumane. He didn't know for certain that it _wasn't_ his nature, and it scared him.

He felt depraved and vulgar, he wanted to light every tree around him on fire just so he could feel them blaze. He loved watching fire destroy things, he loved the orange glow in which the flames bathed him, and he loved watching fire spread.

As Merlin walked, a strange, sleep-like feeling came over him. His eyelids closed halfway, and soon he felt as if his body had been pulled slightly off of the ground, and he'd begun to float. His dangling, suddenly heavy legs carried him further into the woods, and perhaps another hour passed before Merlin's body came to a stop. He sank gently back to the earth, feeling half-exhausted and half-wondrous. Snapping out of his daze, he started slightly at the change in scenery, turning around and looking above him with a curious expression on his face.

Trees were everywhere; colored dark grey, light grey, dark blue, brown, and dark green. He smelled the wet dirt of the forest floor below his feet and unintentionally curled his toes towards the earth, as if his skin wanted to seep into the dark, damp ground, except he was wearing shoes and they prevented him from doing so.

Alarm washed through him in a cold, adrenaline-induced wave, and he tensed, his flashing eyes searching for signs of enemies in the trees nearby. He called out a faint, foolish "Hello?" before shaking his head at the lack of response.

Magic must've carried him here, he realized. Turning his focus inward, he sorted through his mind and found that it had been his own magic, even though it wasn't of his own accord. He felt an unnerving feeling course through him, replacing the alarm. He felt malicious and it _burned._

Helplessly looking down at the ground, he turned to face the opposite direction, and took in the sight of the giant lake that was laid out before him. Every drop of water sang siren songs to him, begging him to strip off his clothes and dive into the water. That message reverberated in his body with some primal sort of recognition; he took two halting steps towards the shore before he collapsed against the sand and dirt, digging his fingers roughly into the grainy earth. It crumbled, getting stuck underneath his fingernails, and he stared out at the lake, his eyes glowing orange.

"Avalon," he muttered, the same way he'd greet a pest, ignoring the fact that the word 'Avalon' felt the same as the word 'mother' to him. He shook his head, not wanting to think about it.

Crawling forward a ways, he placed his hand in the water that lapped against the shoreline, lazily throwing itself at the sand only to slip away a second later. The water seemed to mix with his skin, just as the earth had wanted to mix with his toes, and he felt a connection; he felt the _history_ of this lake flash before him like a book's turning pages.

Merlin saw Sophia and her father, Freya, Godwyn and Elena, Lancelot, Elyan, and Arthur. He saw faces he didn't know, faces that had visited this place long before he was born; faces that had eerily seeped out of this place and into this world. He saw faces that would come after he was dead and gone; faces that would never truly understand the meaning of this body of water, if magic was outlawed forever.

"I'm here to change that," he told the faces, but they didn't seem to hear him. He didn't mind. Dipping his hand into the water and trailing it around, he watched small waves billow and roll away.

The fire he'd craved earlier seemed to burst out of his fingertips, setting the lake aflame. His eyes widened in confusion and he recoiled as the entire lake erupted in a brilliant, bluish-gold fire. The trees around him swished angrily with a sudden wind, but they didn't catch fire as they should've, what with the flames leaping and licking at their leaves.

The glow of the fire soothed him, called to him, and all of a sudden he knew exactly what was going on, as sure as his soul burned.

It was time to resurrect Arthur.

The earth and the stars and the wind and the moon all seemed to hone in on that simple fact, giving Merlin a sense of clarity. He dug his fingers into the saturated sand, murmuring long-forgotten words to the water and then, finally, whispering Morgana's name.

Pulling his fingers out of the sand, he stared as the water washed away what had clung to his hands. He walked forward on his hands and knees until the water was up just past his elbows. He felt fingers trailing up his arms; he knew these were the hands of the people who had been laid to rest in the lake.

Merlin kept speaking in ancient tongues, as flashes of what he'd learned of necromancy over the years came and went in his mind. He didn't need to remember anything – the darker part of him had been called to the surface, and now both parts of him, as one, spoke the words.

The fires of the lake touched at his body, like the fingers and like the water itself, seeming to mold around his rigid form. Although they had almost completely engulfed his lower half, he was not harmed. They danced and flicked about, telling him their names. The wind began to keen through the trees as if it were an injured animal.

After a while, he felt Morgana's presence, and he straightened his spine to look back at her. She appeared like a ghost on the shore; her hair gently whipping in the howling wind. Her pale face glowed orange, and her eyes shone yellow, and she stared through the flames at him. Reaching out a hand, he gestured for her to walk into the water, and she did so.

He couldn't tell if Morgana was in a trancelike state or not – her eyes were glazed over and her face was morose – but it didn't matter. She stared at her bare feet sinking deeper and deeper into the dark water with every step. She took his hand, grasping it firmly, and knelt down beside him, her eyes locked on his. There was something familiar in the way their skin met, and once again it felt like the earth trying to seep into Merlin's toes, and the water trying to mix with his fingers. She was made of the same elements as he; he could feel their bodies radiating magic and heat and power.

His mind was a mess; thoughts flitted in and out of his focus, and he felt the hands that had delicately been tugging at him now begin to claw. Nails dug sharp into his skin but didn't draw blood, and Morgana moved her legs to try and keep them away as she quietly said, "They all want to come."

"But they can't…" he whispered, thinking of Freya and Elyan and Lancelot. Morgana shook her head apathetically, looking down at the hands. The flames didn't touch her but the fingers did. The world seemed to tilt.

In unison, they tightened their grip on each other's hands, and both leaned forward to put their free hand on the ground underneath the water. They did it without thinking, as if their bodies knew exactly what to do. Pressing their palms into the sand, they felt the earth sear their skin, but they knew better than to pull away.

White light shone through the water and the flames, and it grew larger and larger until a wall of light seemed to rise out of the waves. It was a simple mix of light, water, and fire, and after a moment, the water began to slide down the wall, like melted candle wax. An ethereal gate started to form, not made of metal or glass, but rather of magic; of energy.

Their hearts and bodies yearned to enter the gates, but they were held back by duty rather than restriction. Tears began to stream freely down Merlin's face, and when he looked to Morgana, he saw that she was crying, too. All of her seemed to radiate gold, no longer just her eyes, and when he looked down at himself, he saw himself glowing the same color. They raised their hands towards the gates, with open palms and splayed fingers, and then curled their fingers, drawing the gates towards them as they did so.

The grasping hands left them, and they saw ethereal forms swim away, towards the gates. The cold, crisp air of the night made them feel light-headed. They watched with fascinated eyes as the world behind the wall open up; colors brighter and more vivid than their world shone through, radiating brightly, and beautiful, melodic sounds trickled through, over the water and flames.

With extraneous effort, Merlin lifted a leg and hefted himself out of the water to stand. The water barely touched his knees, and he began to take steps towards the gates, pulling Morgana up next to him. Wading through the fire and waves, they approached the gates with wonder and adoration. The water rose past their knees and to the tops of their thighs, and they broke their view of the glorious new world to stare at each other. "Avalon," they whispered, near breathless.

Suddenly, as they neared an arm's length distance of the gates, they hit an invisible barrier. What felt like electric shock jumped through their veins, raising the hairs on the back of their necks and making them feel jittery. Merlin's eyebrows twisted in confusion, but knowledge pooled through him like honey.

"We have to break contact," he told Morgana, gesturing with his eyes to their hands. She dropped his with haste, and a roll of thunder raged through the sky, followed by several cracks of lightning. It lit up their pale skin, which shone with the ethereal light of Avalon, and they stared at each other for a fleeting moment before they turned back to the gates.

Without exchanging the information, they both knew that they could not cross the threshold of the gates, so they lined their toes up with the edge. Their bodies continued to go through seemingly primeval motions without their command. Lifting their hands to hover in front of their chests, they pressed their palms to the edge of Avalon.

Ancient hymns passed through their lips in words, songs, and screams. The voices of a thousand sorcerers and sorceresses carried through their ears, ringing with glee and disdain. They felt _him_; felt his spirit awaken and shake off twenty seasons' worth of change – dead leaves blew away in the winds of Avalon, along with the butterflies of summer and the sparrows of spring, and the snow of winter.

He seemed to growl and grumble like a bear coming out of hibernation, and they felt him take an unbalanced step forward. Morgana's blue eyes flicked back and forth, watching for signs of him as his second step quaked through the earth, causing new waves to lap at her hips. She bit her lip in anticipation as her eyes searched the picturesque lands past the gates, but she did not see him.

The angry hands of gods and monsters and faeries and changelings pushed at the seams of Avalon, attempting to claw their way into the mortal world, but Merlin held them off with a simple glance. This was no time to set wildlings running free; he had a job to do.

Another moment passed, and the world seemed to tilt back again, and their arms rose above them, elbows locked. They pushed their hands past the threshold of Avalon and felt hands grip theirs, and when their fingers interlocked and they clasped the hands in greeting, they knew.

They knew it was him.

And so they pulled with all of their might, their magic, and their mortality. They pulled him with fear and longing; with hope. He pulled them back, but in the end, Merlin and Morgana won, and just as his hands seemed to break the surface of Avalon, the beautiful white gates disappeared in a flash.

They fell back, landing slowly on their rear ends in the blazing water. Their heads dunked under, and for a moment all was still. Then, they resurfaced, blinking and coughing and shaking. The waves were yet aflame, but Merlin and Morgana remained unharmed. Pushing themselves to their feet, they looked around in curiosity and frustration as they realized that the person they'd pulled out of Avalon was nowhere to be seen.

"W-What?" Merlin babbled, hands raising to his soaking-wet hair. "It was supposed to work, he was supposed to be here; it was supposed to _work!" _He let out a cry of anguish and thrashed around, but the water slowed his limbs.

Numbness washed away the prickling feeling of the flames, and the heaviness of his wet clothes. His heart seemed to slow down, and his head and neck felt hollow. Blinking slowly, he began to shake his head in disbelief.

Morgana's hand touched his upper arm, and she said in a warning voice, "Merlin." He shook her off, turning to search the place the gates had been only seconds before. His eyes looked hopeless and lost, and he began to sob uncontrollably, his face contorting in pain.

"It should've worked!" He half bent over as the words wrenched out of his throat, raw and hateful and despairing. "Why didn't it work? What did I do wrong –"

His head throbbed as the tension of the past five years crashed down on him. Everything he'd done, everything he'd seen – all the cruel things, all the dishonest things; all the things that had fed the _other_ part of himself that was now poking and prodding at his insides, laughing and jeering – all of that was for _nothing._

He held his face in his hands, ignoring the urge to tear his eyes out with his fingernails. He wanted to let the world fall away. He wanted to stand there in the freezing water with the non-burning flames until the end of time, allowing himself to freeze over in the winter and thaw in the spring. He wanted the world to end in fire and hatred, by his own hand. He wanted to give into the sadistic side of himself, now that there was no hope, no chance in the world that Arthur would ever…

Grabbing his shoulder again, Morgana shook him and said, "_Merlin."_

Merlin flinched, taking his hands away from his face, raising his eyes to meet hers and then realized she was pointing behind him. "What?" he asked her, his voice shaking. "I don't see anything…" he said as he turned.

But then he did. As he squinted into the night, towards the shore, he saw a dome-shaped formation begin to rise out of the water. It looked like a giant bubble, but the material looked to be made of water and mud and…something red. Merlin blinked, wiping water away from his eyes and glancing at Morgana, who stood close to him, staring solemnly towards the shape.

It continued to come out of the water, but it narrowed into a cylindrical shape. It shed water, staying in place as the winds and the water fought to tear it away. The ancient words ran through Merlin's head, but he no longer had to speak them. When the bubble seemed that it could reach no further into the sky, it popped, leaving the bent form of a man in its wake as it dove back under the waves.

Blood and water seeped off of his bare skin in rivulets as he rose out of the water; dripping, and glistening, and…full of _life._ His stooped form straightened as he lifted his head, and the water that drenched his hair seemed to slide off of him.

He turned to face Merlin and Morgana slowly, peering through his bangs at the two. Blue eyes met blue eyes. All of them were silent, taking in the opposite party's appearance for a moment as the winds began to die down. The flames ceased, leaving a smoky-grey fog over the water. The thunder and lightning was long since gone, and soon, they were just three people standing in the Lake of Avalon.

Seconds ticked by as they stared at each other in wonder. Merlin wasn't sure whether to approach the other man or to give him his space. Deciding he should explain what was going on, he cleared his throat to speak. However, at the sudden noise, the other man jerked into action.

Raising a long, sharp sword from under the water, he crashed deeper into the water and towards Merlin and Morgana with scary speed. They flinched in return, immediately raising a wall of water to protect them from Excalibur.

Morgana held her arms in front of her face and abdomen, remembering the last time she'd been sliced open by the blade. Merlin put an arm in front of her as well, raising a cautious hand to the spluttering man who was once again rising from the water. Merlin used magic to wrench the sword from his fingers, catching it deftly after it flung towards him.

The other man rushed through the water towards Merlin, his sharp eyes locking on the blade and then Merlin himself. Merlin made a shooing motion with his hand, and a wave of water swept the other man backwards. "Arthur!" he growled, his eyes flashing orange. Then, again, in a softer tone, he murmured, "Arthur."

Arthur raised his head to stare coldly at Merlin, his face set in determination. When it was clear that he wasn't going to reply, Merlin said, "Do you understand what's going on?" Putting his hands up cautiously, Merlin glanced to Morgana before taking a small step forward in the water, towards Arthur and the shore. Morgana said nothing, crossing her arms against her chest and shivering slightly as she scrutinized Arthur.

"Arthur, we resurrected you," Merlin explained, his hands still raised as if to calm the other man. "We raised you from the dead, because Camelot needs its king."

Arthur broke eye contact with Merlin and looked down through the water at Excalibur. "King. Camelot needs its king," he mouthed to himself, repeating Merlin's words. Then, he spoke up. "Albion. The Knights of the Round Table…Guinevere. And…the war on magic."

His eyes snapped to Morgana, then to Merlin as his mouth curled into a malicious sneer. "Fiends," he muttered to himself. "Destroying the kingdom…"

Morgana made a slapping motion with her hand, and a wave of water rose up and smacked Arthur. He stumbled backward before falling on his rear end in the water. Walking towards him, she raised another wave to drown him on the shore, her face twisted and spiteful and eerily resembling his own. Merlin pushed the wave back down with a simple downward twitch of his finger, and she spun to glare at him, her eyes flashing.

"What are you doing?" she asked angrily. "He keeps trying to _kill_ us."

"He's disoriented!" Merlin hissed back. "That doesn't mean you should kill him."

A black eyebrow snapped upward on her face, and in a malevolent tone she said, "Everything means I should kill him, Merlin." But she made no further motion to kill the king, and instead looked on him blankly, as if all her love and hate for the boy had been drained out of her as soon as Merlin had spoken.

The warlock waded through the lake towards his overturned friend, gently making a fist with his hand as if he were closing his fingers around Arthur's arms, and in turn Arthur was unable to move. He spat what sounded like the fiery language of the dead at Merlin, his brilliant and bold blue eyes flashing like the flame of a lantern. Merlin didn't pay attention to that; it was very cold outside, and their three bodies were all going to suffer consequences if they didn't head back to the castle.

Snatching up Excalibur before Morgana could think to, Merlin took one of Arthur's arms and pulled him to his feet. Arthur had stopped growling and just looked angrily ahead of him, his eyes searching to make sense of his surroundings. Looks of recognition played on his face, and Merlin watched him quietly as they reached the edge of the forest.

Turning to look at Morgana over his shoulder, Merlin realized that the witch wasn't immediately behind him, as he'd expected. She still stood in the shallow water, but her upper body was turned back towards the open water, and without seeing her face Merlin could tell that Morgana was hoping for one more glimpse of Avalon: he felt her soul yearning just as his was, and through the chain that bound their kind – warlocks and witches and Druids and dragons – together, he let her know of his sorrow.

"Morgana," he murmured to the wind, his voice aching as much as his heart. The woman slowly turned her head towards him, as if it took all of her strength to pull her attention away from what had felt so clearly like home. Her eyes met his in the dusky blue light, and her hair rose in ringlets in the soft breeze, bouncing on her sharp cheekbones.

Her shoulders were shaking, she was shivering so bad, and he was compelled to reach his hand out to her so that she might grasp it in her own, but something turned in his stomach as he remembered who she was, and he simply said, "Come. It's cold."

Morgana looked down and raised a hand to pull away a strand of hair that had gotten caught in her mouth, and walked towards them onto the dry sand.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Sorry for such a long wait! Things have been hectic on my end. School started, my mom was diagnosed with cancer, and yeah, shit happens. Anyway, I hope I'll be able to speed up the writing process soon! If not, I know you'll understand. As always, reviews are peaches and cream and provide as encouragement for me to write faster! I love hearing your thoughts and opinions, guys!


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